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FATHER CONNELL; 



A TALE. 



By THE O'HARA. FAMILY. 



& $tur dMitton wttb iutroflttrtiott and Qottt, 
BY MICHAEL BANIM, ESQ., 

sn iobtiyob or th» "o'uu nimx." 



NEW YORK : 
P. J. KENEDY, 

EXCELSIOR PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

5 BARCLAY STREET. 
I896. 



THE KE'V iGRK 
PUBLIC LIBRARY 

ASTOR LENOX AND 
T1LDEN FOUNDATIONS 

R 1918 L 



Copyright : 

D & J. SADLIER & ca 

1888 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



s 



^ 



Tn Volume in the reader's hands will, it is hoped, prove a weleoaM 
addition to the standard light literature of onr day. It is a new edition, 
In an improved form, — and enriched, as will be seen, with additional 
matter,— of a well-known Tale ; the last, as well as the most pleasing,* 
and, in some respects, the most finished of that remarkable series issued 
by the brothers Banim under the name of the " O'Hara Family." The 
present work appeared in 1842, and is thus alluded to in a very interest- 
ing biography of Mr. John Banim, lately published. f 

" Banim's severe illness had prevented him for some time from pursu- 
ing his literary avocations; but being anxious that his brother should 
take up and continue the Series, he writes to him as follows :— 

M ' We have given, perhaps, too much of the dark side of the Irish 
character ; let us for the present treat of the amiable. Enough of it is 
around us. I once mentioned to you the good, the childishly innocent, 
and yet the wise Father O'Donnell ; we have only to take him as he 
^ really was, and if we succeed in drawing him life-like, he must be rev- 

* erenced and loved, as we used to reverence and love him.' " 

H The tale of Father Connell was the result. Other particulars relating 

to its origin and composition the Publishers leave to be communicated 
to the reader by the gentleman best qualified to do it— the author him- 
self, Mr. Michael Banim, who has done them the honor to contribute an 
i original Preface and Notes to the present edition. They have only to 



* A similar view Is taken toy Mr. Chamber*, la a careful and discriminating cri- 
tique on Mr. Banim'a writing*, in the Cyclopaedia of English Literature." Mr. a 
remark* that the tendency of the author to dwell somewhat too exclusively upon 
scenes of turbulent and unehastened passion became gradually diminished; that 
_ many of his smaller tales were 6Ustingui*hed by gn^ delicacy and tenderneaa, and 

>> that "Father Oonnell," (which he characterise* as "an original and excellent 

awl") is u tvJlotip*aeaffectomaUfeeUnpa*dMi*«Ui<m." 
f The Ufa of John Banim. 



tf 



iv ADVERTISEMENT. 

add their own high opinion of the tale, and their full confidence in ite 
continued popularity among all clases of readers. It is not wanting 
indeed, — any more than the previous volumes of the " O'Hara Tales," 
— in the sombre and the terrible ; but over all this the beautiful and 
the good so touchiogly predominate, that the effect upou the reader's 
mind cannot be otherwise than healthy as well as pleasing. The scenes 
of exquisite pathos especially, with which the work abounds, claim for 
it a very high place in the literature of fiction ; nor can anything more 
deeply affecting be found, even in the writings of the greatest of oat 
novelists, than thft closing scenes of the volume, which depict the last 
act of self-sacrifice, the death, and the funeral of the venerable hero of 
the tale. In corroboration of their estimate of the work, the Publishers 
may be permitted to append a few extracts from notices which appeared 
at the time of its first publication : — 

*• Mr. Banim has the credit, and a high one it it, of opening a new vein of notion 
during Scott's decline in the zenith, and showing that Irish Romance could compete 
with Scottish, or that of any other country. . . . The character who gives the title 
to the present work is an old Clergyman, of great openness of heart, and simplicity 
of mind and manners, although possessed of energy and resources when occasion 
called for them; and centreing in, or circulating about, this Irish * Vioab of Waks- 
ruELD,' are the various groups of persons who figure in the story. . . . The beggar 
girl, Mary Oooney, is an exquisite picture; the robber, Coatigan, also is drawn with 
remarkable force and skill. "Spectator. 

* m As a popular hero, Neddy Fennell may throw down the glove to all his contem- 
poraries; be is bold, generous, honest, and withal tender hearted. . . . The story 
contains more than one of those night scenes, and court-house interiors, which 
were so thrilling in the earlier O'Hara Tales, and will be found in this to have lost 
little of their potency."— Athenaeum. 

" ' Father Connell * upholds the reputation formerly gained by the author of the 
* O'Hara Tales,' as one of the most vivid portrayers of Irish life. The present work 
Is Irish, lively, and amusing, with enough of pathos to touch the softer feelings 
Each and all of the actors in the story are distinct and admirable portraits."— Lite* 
tryOasetifii 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 

TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 



Irrespective of any artistic merit a tale may possess, there is a cer- 
tain quality that imparts a degree of value, even to a clumsy production 
I mean a truthful delineation of nature. 

A book (a story book) bears close analogy to a picture ; or a story 
book may be regarded as a series of pictures ; and the more closely the 
artist copies from nature, the more valuable is the product of his pen or 
pencil. The resemblance between the operations of the palette and 
the quill, could be traced almost to a minute identity. The choice of 
subject, the coloring, the dispensation of light and shade, the prominence 
of foreground, the haze and diminution of distance, the main light illu- 
minating the principal figure, the relief, and the individuality of objects ; 
all these things, and others, must be studied by the writer of a story, as 
closely as by the painter of a picture. In either case the master baud 
will be powerful and impressive, and fix and fascinate the reader or ob- 
server, in proportion to the power exerted. 

In my judgment, the picture we love to look upon the longest, is that 
which is the most faithful to nature ; and the book we carry about with 
us in our pocket, and relax the mind with the oftenest, is that which 
gives us the truest reflex of our experiences ; the experiences of what 
we have ourselves seen and felt, not noticed perhaps distinctly, as we 
thought at the time, but yet impressed (as we now find) so firmly on us, 
as to produce lively pleasure by the truthfuln3ss of the aroused remem- 
brance. 

High imaginative character, drawn with pen or pencil, brilliancy of 
color, mastery of touch, will astonish; but these will not succeed in 
producing quiet, smiling pleasure ; while nature, truly represented, if 
the subject be not in itself repulsive, will attract and gratify. 

It would ill become me, — and I am not salaaming to the reader, — to 
claim for the tale of " Father Oonuell '' any rank in the aristocracy ot 
literature. I will not, either, affect " the pride that apes humility," by 
disclaiming all pretension to merit for the story I have been the main 
hand in fabricating ; but I will ask such consideration as may be due to 
a veritable picture of a reality,— so far at least as refers so the hero, 
Father Connell. 

(, I write in full sincerity, still without laying my forehead to the earth 
at the reader's feet, when I admit that I have more than a doubt of thn 



Tl PREFACE. 

artiste powsr as a painter. I can state, however, in all truth, that a real 
subject sat for the portrait of Father Connell ; and be that portrait what 
it may, as a work of art, harsh as may be the outline, faulty as may be 
the coloring, the reader may be assured the likeness is a good one, easily 
recognised by many yet living who remember the original. There is not 
one touch of gilding, one meretricious hue, to falsify or recommend the 
picture. The portrait is as life-like as the painter had capacity to portray. 3 

It may—or it may not — be kuown to the reader, that the stories offer- 
ed to the public from time to time, under the name of " Tales by the 
O'Hara Family," were the joint productions of my late brother, John 
Banim, and myself. The following tale originated with me, and was 
criticised and prepared for the press by my brother ; his death and its 
appearance were nearly contemporaneous. Having been the original 
writer, I can speak with certainty as to the strict delineation of the 
hero's character, for the copying of which I hereby claim credit, my 
r claim in any other way going not one jot beyond. 

When my brother and I were children, the Rev. Richard O'Donnell 
was the pastor of St John's parish, Kilkenny. As children we loved our 
simple Varted, worldly innocent, but religiously wise old pastor; in 
manho wi we venerated his memory. We had been the wearers of white 
muBiui surplices in his choir ; for some successive years we were guests 
at his primitive twelfth-night's feast of cakes and ale ; and, decorated 
with tiny scarves and hatbands, we were followers in the nearly three- 
mile-long procession which accompanied him to his humble grave. 

His virtues, his eccentricities, and his peculiarities were well known 
to us. We had no necessity—- and it was far from our desire— to imagine 
anything when drawing the character of our old friend. Many of the 
incidents of the story are real occurrences, to which I was myself either 
eye-witness, or of which I received the account from good authority. 

If, as I set out by stating, a faithful copy from nature imparts a value 
to an otherwise indifferent production, the reader will easily understand 
why I have been tempted to pen this short introduction to the new edi- 
tion of " 1 ther Connell." 

I candidly avow I have been urged by strong feelings of paternity; 
and, very naturally, with that feeling to impel me, I slily insinuate to 
the reader, something to this effect :— 

" If the literary merits of the tale be insufficient to insure Its favor 
able reception, I crave your indulgence, when you regard it as the 
framework of a true sketch from life." 

lam the Reader's very obedient Servant, 



FATHER CONNELL. 



CHAPTER L 



Tmt parish priest of parish, about thirty-five yearn 

ago, counted half-way between seventy and eighty ; yet he 
was a hale, sturdy man without any droop in his figure, or 
any indication of old age about him — this appearance re- 
sulting from an excellent natural constitution, habits of 
great temperance and regularity, and an abun^^nce of 
healthful exercise, on foot and on horseback — indgdd* in 
every possible way. sir-. 

He used to walk along, with his chest expanded, his 
shoulders thrown back, his head quite erect, his arms 
hanging straight by his sides, and his fingers closed on the 
palms of his hands, and almost always working against 
them. His face showed scarce a wrinkle, and it was florid 
— not red and white, however, like some old people's faces, 
not yet purple like those of others, as if the smaller blood- 
vessels had burst, and become congealed, within the surface 
of their skins— but it was overspread with a still rosy 
color of health. His forehead was expansive, and, at the 
temples, square; his eyes were blue, and generally ex- 
pressing thought and abstraction — in which state, they 
used to stare straight-forward, almost without evfer blinking 
— yet they often relaxed into a smiling, or, as it might be, 
moistened expression ; during which change they appeared 
half-closed, and opened and shut very fast indeed. His 
scarcely grizzled eyebrows were bushy and protruding ; his 
nose was long, large, but well-formed, and with a broad 
back. His lips were full, and for his age, remarkably red 
and handsome. 



6 FATHER CONNELL. 

But above all, there was about his countenance the indi- 
cations of a great singleness, and priraitiveness, and beauty 
of character — so that if you meet him, stepping measur- 
edly, yet almost springingly along his suberb street, or the 
adjacent roads, and silently moving his lips, and working, 
as usual, the palms of his hands with his fingers, and taking 
no notice of you, though perhaps you might be an intimate 
friend, and his old eyes winking, and his whole face smiling 
to itself, you must inevitably have said, that the smile was 
not provoked by any object or circumstance then noticed 
by him, but rather that it came from a heart enjoying, at 
that moment, the sunshine of a virtuous, and therefore 
very happy intention; or — excuse poor, human vanity, 
even in its least offensive shape — recollection, perhaps. 

Since the day he had become a clergyman, Father Con- 
nell had never altered the form or the texture of any article 
of his attire. He still wore the curious head-dress which 
his present biographers have already endeavored to de- 
scribe — in their tale of John Doe in fact — as sworn by 
Father O'Clery— or indeed, if they had told the perfect 
truth, by the celebrated Irish friar, Father O'Leary. It 
consisted of an article made of goat's hair, or of horse hair, 
protruding, from above the ears down to the neck, into a 
curled yet formal mass, daily dressed with powder and po- 
matum — and above this rampart arose a round, almost 
conical continuation of the wig, very smoothly slicked down, 
and slightly, but sharply peaked in the middle of the fore- 
head. When a hat was placed upon the structure, it rested 
on the frizzled bulwark, of course, and therefore never de- 
scended lower than about the middle of the back of the 
head. And the hat which Father Connell, at least, wore 
with his grotesque head-clothing, was a good match for it 
— being very low-crowned, and exceedingly broad-rim- 
med. 

Our priest's black coat sloped to the skirts, and those 
skirts were enormously ample, and had great pocket-flap? 
across them, mohair buttons, also on a gigantic scale, orna- 
menting both. His waistcoat was collarless, and fell, again, 
with huge pocket-flaps, nearly to his mid thigh. His black 
small-clothes were tightened at his knees by large silver 
buckles ; and blue worsted stockings covered his legs ; and 
his sharp pointed shoes also exhibited, across the insteps. 



FATHER CONNELL. 7 

silver buckles of great dimensions. $now could not be 
whiter than his muslin stock, nor than the indication of his 
inner garment, every day in the year ; and in winter, an 
outside coat of dark blue, or, as it was then called a " jock," 
with a little round cape, hanging scarcely half way down 
his back, while its skirts did not come lower than his knees, 
formed his protection against inclement- weather. 

And thus attired, Father Connell, while walking along 
the streets of the adjacent town, necessarily displayed, 
joined with his peculiarities of mien, face, and bearing, be- 
fore noticed, an air of eccentricity which passers-by, not 
very well, or at all acquainted with him, would stop to crit- 
icise ; while he himself, good man, remained perfectly 
unaware that anything about him or in him deserved par- 
ticular notice. 



CHAPTER IL 



It was Twelfth Night Six o'clock, the hour for vespers 
in Father ConnelTs little parish chapel, jingled from a little 
cracked bell, set up at the top of a ruined, square Norman 
castle, some distance from the half-tolerated place of wor- 
ship ; for at that time there existed a law that no Catholic 
house of prayer should summon its congregation from its 
own walls by means of a bell ; and, in removing the illegal 
monitor from immediate contact with his chapel, the priest 
hoped to elude the pains and penalties awarded by this 
large-minded piece of legislation, for any breach of its 
mandate. 

So, the little old cracked bell was wringing ; the candles 
in the two badly gilded, wooden branches, which hung from 
the coiling of the chapel, had been lighted ; and six others, 
supported by tall candlesticks, also wooden, and badly gilded, 
on the altar, were in process of illumination, by the agency 
of a very handsome little boy, with auburn hair, which 
curled and glittered over his white surplice, as far as his 
shoulders ; and the people summoned to evening devotion, 
were coming in ; or, after bending before the sacrament, 



8 FATHER CONNBLL. 

enclosed in the altar tabernacle, were decently taking their 
places throughout the poor building. 

In the centre of the chapel certain moveable seats, 
technically called the choir, were arranged. When put 
together they formed three sides of a long parallelogram, 
running from the semi-circular railing around the altar 
(which enclosed a space called the sanctuary} to nearly the 
other end of the edifice. The top of this choir consisted 
of three old worm-eaten chairs, with high triangular backs, 
of which the middle one aspired to the dignity of an arm- 
chair, and further in assumption of its dignities, it stood 
upon a kind of little dais, one or two steps above the day 
and mortar floor. At right angles with these old seats, and 
almost touching them at either hand, were two long benches 
with railed backs; while plain forms continued the side 
lines of the parallelogram, down to, as has been said, the 
railings before the altar. 

It need not be said that the old arm-chair, of little ease, 
was occupied by Father Oonnell, during vespers ; while its 
two humble attendants were filled by his two curates. The 
confronting benches, proceeding from them towards the 
altar, afforded places to very religious men, wearing long 
linen garments, and after them, two little boys, wearing 
nice muslin surplices — the most eminent for good con- 
duct, in every way, to be found in the parish, as well as 
being the most distinguished for attention to certain small 
official duties of the chapel — enfam de pritre, in fact And 
upon the forms continuing the lines of the benches, sat a 
second class of pious men and boys, not indeed robed in 
white, but still honored with the distinction of immediately 
assisting in the chant of the vespers — although, be it 
noticed, every man, woman, and child of the congregation, 
might, if he or she liked, do the same thing. 

While the places in the choir reserved for the unrobed 
men and boys were being taken possession of by them, the 
other pious men and boys, who wore the long linen dresses 
and muslin surplices, were assisting each other in the 
proper adjustment of their attire, in a little sacristy, at the 
back of the altar, and approachable from the chapel, first 
by a kind of gateway in the middle of its railed enclosure, 
and then by a door at one of the sides. Father Council's 
curates already stood robed; and the old priest himself 



FATHER CONNELL. 9 

knelt, in silent prayer, to a kind of desk, in a corner — no 
one around him speaking above his breath. 

He arose, and proceeded to put on his ceremonial sur- 
plice. To aid him in this task, immediately bounded for- 
ward the very handsome, glossy-haired boy, who has been 
seen lighting the tall candles on the altar, and who, that 
business ended, had been waiting in the sacristy to enjoy 
the honor of discharging a conferred duty of a higher de- 
gree. In his buoyant eagerness to exhibit as an expert 
priest's valet, he happened to tread too familiarly upon one 
of Father ConnelTs feet ; at which, smarting a good deal, 
and therefore a little ruffled at first, the clergyman sud- 
denly turned round upon him ; but so soon as his eve 
rested upon the half-penitent, half-laughing face of the 
blooming urchin, he could not help— for the old man loved 
the boy — smiling in sympathy ; and then he took him by 
the ear, in a make-believe show of punishing him, while 
thumb and finger pressed no harder than could a touch of 
velvet have done, and proceeded to address the offender. 

"Neddy FenneU," it was in a whisper he spoke, and there 
was a curious contrast between his assumed tone of re- 
proof, and the reflection in his eyes of the glances of his 
half-spoiled pet; " Neddy Fennell, will you ever stop doing 
mischief? Neddy, while you are in the house of God, my 
child, you must behave quietly, and with decorum and 
gravity; in the fields, you may jump and play, Neddy Fen- 
nell, but in God's own house you must, I say, be orderly 
and well-behaved." And again he feigned to inflict pun- 
ishment on the boy's ear, only playing in the mean time 
with the little silky-surfaced organ. The moment he let it 
go, Neddy Fennell, covering it with his own hand, assumed 
such a farcical face of mock terror and suffering, and so 
well acted the part of pretending to wipe off his surplice 
imaginary drops of blood, which had trickled on it from 
the tyrannical pressure of the priest's finger and thumb, 
that his little companions, amongst whom he now resumed 
his place, grew red in the faces, with the efforts they made 
to suppress their laughter. 

The priest having adjusted his surplice, at the vestment 
press, stood inactive for a moment as if in thought, and 
then turned round and spoke in a low voice to all those 
who stood by:— 



10 FATHER CONNELL. 

" The men and the boys of the choir are to wait here in 
the sacristy after vespers for me ; I have something very 
particular to say to them." 

No one distinctly replied, but there was a murmur of 
assent, with a bending of many heads, which gave a suffi- 
ciently satisfactory answer. 

After pausing, in reverential recollection of what he had 
next to do, Father Connell gave a well-known signal, by 
waving to and fro the back of his hand — and there was 
dignity in the motion ; and thereupon the men of the choir, 
in their white linen dresses, issued out of the sacristy into 
the chapel, two by two, holding their joined hands before 
them, and after them went the little boys wearing surplices, 
imitating their elders, as well as they could, in every re- 
spect. In passing through the railed-in space before the 
altar, all and each bent their knees and bowed, as the gen- 
eral congregation had done on entering the chapel, to the 
veiled sacrament ; and then proceeded to assume the places 
we have before mentioned as allotted to them. Finally, 
Father Connell and his curates quitted the sacristy, and in 
passing, he knelt praying on the steps of the altar; after 
which taking his throne, his two reverend assistants at his 
either side, vespers began by his giving out, after some 
prefatory form, and in a fine old voice, the magnificent 
psalm of "Dixit Dominus." He was answered by the whole 
strength of the congregation, young and old, in the result 
of whose efforts, although perfect accordance or harmony 
did not indeed occur, there was much of impressive devo- 
tion, which ought to have given satisfaction to any good 
heart ; and thus continued the vespers, through a succes- 
sion of many of the most beautiful of the psalms, the pastor 
always beginning each psalm. But we had almost forgotten 
to notice that the individuals particularly entitled to take up 
the responses, were a row of pious women, wearing ample 
white dresses, with hoods that came over their heads, and 
almost over their faces, who occupied a form within the 
railing before the altar, as well as by young girls in the 
galleries, indifferently well instructed in their occasional 
services by the old, perpetual clerk of the chapel — himself, 
by the way, not a very eminent musician. 

Vespers ended. All the lay persons previously occupy* 
ing the " choir/' returned from the chapel into the sacristy, 



FATHEB CONNBLL 11 

and employed themselves in taking off and folding up their 
chapei attire ; and then all awaited the re-entrance of their 
parish priest, as he had desired them to do. Were there 
none among them who well understood what his formal 
intimation before vespers meant? Ay, indeed, a good 
many, boys as well as men ; and they could scarcely now 
suppress, although, under the influence of a decorous feel* 
ing, they had lately done so, indications of their knowledge 
of Father ConnelTs intentions towards them, for the even- 
ing. It was Twelfth Night, in fact, and the majority of 
them knew his practices well 

He came back to them ; he gravely unrobed himself, not 
confronting them; he bent his head over his clasped hands; 
and then he turned round, and, his face shining with the 
delight which he knew he was about to impart to his audi- 
tors, said : — 

" My good friends and little children, this is the season 
for offering with pure and light hearts, to a good and great 
God r praises both in solemn hymns and in cheerful acts, 
for the wonderful and merciful bounty of his coming to 
redeem and save us, and my friends and you, my little 
children, we have returned here after singing praises and 
thanksgivings to the Lord of heaven and of earth ; and He 
in his love will not be displeased if we now enjoy ourselves 
in making use — temperately, however, and very temper- 
ately — of some of the good things which he has placed at 
our disposal — yes, my friends, big and little, we will now 
make merry amongst ourselves; so come after me, my good 
friends and little children; it is Twelfth Night, and we 
ought to rejoice, and we will rejoice ; come — I have pre- 
pared a little treat for you— come after me, and let us 
rejoice." 

Father Connell and his invited guests had not far to go 
to their house of entertainment, for it was not more than a 
hundred paces from the chapeL He stopped at the head 
of his troop — the urchins partly composing it shouting 
shrilly though in a low key, and the pious men chuckling 
*i their antics — he stopped, we say, before the humble 
entrance door to his thatched dwelling, and after laughing 
heartily himself, knocked loudly. His old housekeeper, 
whose business it had been to prepare for the soiree, and 
who therefore expected the throng of revellers, quickly 



12 FATHER CONNELL. 

opened the portal to his summons, and, as amiably as her 
curious nature and habits would permit, bid everybody 
welcome. 

Mrs, Mulloy was a peculiarity in her way; — tall, coarsely 
featured, pock-marked, and with an authoritative some- 
thing like a beard, curling on her double chin; and almost 
fat in person and in limbs. Her bearing was lofty, her 
look arbitrary if not severe, and in every respect she 
seemed fully sensible of the importance of her station as 
housekeeper to her parish priest; — though it was whis- 

Sered that even upon him, the source from which she 
erived all her consequence, Mrs. Mulloy did not always 
hesitate to forbear from dictatorial remonstrances, when- 
ever in the exercise of his charitable extravagance, she 
was pleased to detect a wasteful system of dissipation. 
Let it be added that her voice was the contrary of what 
Shakspeare calls : — 

"An excellent thing in woman ;" 

and that her master was a little afraid of its not unfrequent 
eloquent exercise. 

Yet on the present occasion, allowing, as a great rarity, 
her usual inhospitatity to unbend a little, Mrs. Mulloy, 
inspired by the pervading spirit of the hilarity of the 
season, did as we have hinted, behave very graciously in 
her capacity as portress. 

"Welcome then," she duskily said; "welcome all, and 
cead mille afaultha, to the Twelfth-Night's mate; come in, 
your reverence;— come in, men and boys, every mother's 
son o' ye." 

"Gome in, my children," echoed the old priest, gleeishly, 
"come in, in the name of God;" and he bustlingly led the 
way into his white-washed, earthen-floored, and only sit- 
ting-room; in the black marble chimney-piece of which 
was, however, rudely carved a mitre, indicating that the 
paltry apartment had once, and very recently, been in- 
habited by a Roman Catholic bishop; but such was the 
fact; and such were the times. Father Connell was him 
self Catholic dean of his diocese. 

Seats of every description had been arranged all lound 
the parlor; in its centre stood a large square table, at the 
four corners of which was a mighty jug filled with ales 



FATHER COKNELL. 13 

whom froth puffed oyer and adown the sides of each 
vessel. Bows of delf mugs were placed at the edges of 
the table; but the crowning feature of the Twelfth Night's 
feast was a great two-handled osier basket, filled and pyr- 
axnidic&iiy heaped up with brown-skinned, shining cakes 
of a fragrance so delicious as to perfume the apartment, 
and penetrating so keenly the nasal nerves of at least the 
younger portion of the guests, as to give them fair promise 
of the capability of the contents of that basket to gratify 
equally and even more satisfactorily another of the senses. 
We could dilate at great length on the marvellous and long 
inherited excellence of these cakes. In our childhood they 
were termed, after the name of their then manufacturer, 
"Biddy Doyle's cakes;" in generations farther back they had 
borqe, out of reverence to their great inventor, the appel- 
lation of " Juggy Fowler's cakes ;" and Juggy Fowler nad 
sold or bequeathed to Biddy Doyle the secret of making 
them; but Biddy Doyle died suddenly and intestate, so 
that the grand secret died with her; and alas, from that 
day to this, no succeeding artiste has possessed genius 
enough, truly to imitate, in the estimation of the experi- 
enced, Juggy Fowler's far-famed and unique condiment 

We have enumerated all the dainties 'provided by Father 
Connell for his Twelfth Night's xririe, nor did he in his 
heart deem anything better or rarer could have been sun- 
plied on the occasion, in which opinion not one of his 
company differed from him; for indeed when they had 
taken their places, as exactly observed by them in the 
"Choir" at vespers, around the board, but at a distance 
from it, a set of nappier faces could not on that same even- 
ing have been seen at any other board, no matter how 
costly, nor in any other mansion, no matter how magni- 
ficently contrasted with the poor priest's parlor. Our 
host hurried about, as if his very heart and soul were in 
the scene — though why our mysterious "as if ?" There is 
no doubt at all upon the subject; his heart and soul were 
in it With one or two favorites assisting him, he walked 
round and round the circle until each individual of it held 
a "Biddy Doyle" in one hand and a merry mug of ale in 
the other; and he patted the children on the head; or ral- 
lied the men on their peculiarities ; or joined in their 
homely jests upon each other; and loud and general urose 



14 FATHER CONNELL. 

the frequent laugh, in which none joined more gleeishly 
than he did; and almost as frequent as his laughter, and 
fully as loud, were his calls upon "Peggy," to replenish 
from the half barrel under the stairs, the gigantic jugs 
which stood at the four corners of the square old oak 
table in the middle of the banquet halL 

Be it understood that all the members, men and boys, of 
our old friends's choir were unpaid volunteers; and more- 
over, of a very humble class in society — in feet, working 
masons, or slaters, or carpenters, and so forth, or else very 
inferior shopkeepers, and with few exceptions, the sons of 
all such. And yet with these men and boys our good 
priest laughed, jested, and made merry; and anon, story- 
telling, himself setting the example, became the order of 
the evening. And a few of these we shall here glance at, 
while others of them, reported more at length, will be found 
in another place. 

Jack Moore, then, a very tall, uncouthly shaped mason, 
recounted how all the neighborhood in which he dwelt, 
had, a few evenings before, been "frightened to death" by 
the sudden coming to life, after her death, of " ould Alice 
Mahony." 
[^ The body of " ould Alice M had, as Jack stated, been 
" laid out " to be waked, on the door of the room in which 
she died — taken off its hinges for the purpose, a common 
expedient in such emergencies, and on it her lifeless body 
lay stretched, with a handsome shroud on. 1 There was 
plenty of snuff and tobacco for all the attendants at the 
wake, and plenty of gossip going on. The town clock — 
(yes, Mrs. Radcliffe!) — solemnly — tolled — twelve — when up 
sprang old Alice on her temporary couch, and without 
quite opening her eyes, sat on her heels, and, almost thrust- 
ing her knees against her teeth, as she had been much used 
to do before she died. Upon this, out ran, except two or 
three, the throng who had previously been waking her, 
tumbling helter-skelter over each other, and those who 
were last in the race wildly screaming in terror, and swear- 
iug that she was bounding after them bird-like, though 
with some little assistance from her shrivelled arms. And 
here ended Jack Moore's story; Jack, a man of reserved 
and not very exploring habits of mind, solemnly and con* 
tentedly dropping it at this point of interest 



FATHER CONNELL. 15 

Tim Brenan, "the stone cutter," supplied, however, a 
commentary on the wonderful tale — he having been one 
of the very few self-collected persons who had remained 
behind in the wake-room after Alice had sat up on the 
door; and he explained that the solitary and neglected creat- 
ure had died suddenly, quite alone, with her nether limbs 
crippled up; had been so found by some chance visitors the 
next morning, cold and stiff; that, in order to straighten 
her "dacently," and make her "a handsome corpse," her 
now attentive old female neighbors had hit on the expedi- 
ent of strapping across her knees, and of nailing down, at 
either side of her bier, something not sufficiently strong 
for their purpose; that in process of time this badly con- 
structed piece of machinery gave way; that consequently, 
the death-rigid limbs suddenly resumed the position in 
which He, the Master, had confirmed them; and that was 
all, so that Alice had not indeed come to life; and her body, 
instead of voluntarily jumping off the old door, had only 
rolled off it; and she had all along been stone dead, and 
was now decently buried to the heart's content of any one 
who might choose to satisfy himself on the subject. But 
Jack Moore gave no credit to this account of the matter; 
for his own eyes had been witnesses of the real event; he 
was one of the very first to run out after plainly seeing old 
Alice bounce upon her heels to the floor; and as undenia- 
ble proof of his assertions, he exhibited a contusion on his 
lip, which he had received by knocking it against the top 
of the head of a much shorter man than himself, while 
that person impeded his way, during their joint escape 
from the old woman's leap-jack kind of pursuit after them. 
In the dubious state of mind in which these two readings 
of the matter left the audience, there was now no laughter, 
nor even smile; their entertainer being the only person 
amongst them who continued to chuckle heartily. 

Jeff Corrigan's story came next. He recounted the mi- 
raculous finding, very early one morning, of the well-known 
night-cap of James Dullard, the weaver, on the only re- 
maining pinnacle of the old castle near at hand, and before 
noticed as affording a legal place for the little cracked 
bell, used in summoning Father Gonnell's congregation to 
prayers. 

Old Jim Dullard had, upon a certain night, fallen asleop 



16 FATHER CONHBLL. 

at his loom; and while he dozed, he seemed to dream thai 
somehow he was in the ruined building; that he had as* 
eended the spiral stairs; clambered, at the devil's sugges- 
tion, he supposed, and with evident peril to life and limb, 
to an old man of seventy, up to the very highest attainable 
point of the edifice; and had there ventured to look down, 
and become inexpressibly terrified at his height from the 
surface of the earth. While just awakening from his trance, 
his wife came in to summon him to a late supper ; missed 
off his head its usual covering; hinted the fact to him; and 
then, after passing his hand over his bald head, his pallid 
face turned into a dingy white color, even more remarkable 
than was its wont; his long jaws dropped, and became still 
more elongated; and in utter consternation he now addi- 
tionally recollected, and admitted to his spouse, that after 
having been so very much frightened in his dream, while 
looking downward from the top of the " ould castle," he 
fancied he had hung upon its point nearest to the sky, the 
article in question. She laughed, and called him to her 
assistance, peered everywhere through the little manufac- 
tory in which was her husband's loom; but no night-cap 
could be found; and horrible to add, very early the next 
morning, James Dullard, issuing forth with a next-door 
neighbor, whom he had called up to afford him sympathy, 
and add to his courage in his projected investigation, dis- 
covered the missing head-gear — while, however, only look- 
ing up to the old castle, from their little street of cabins — 
perched on the exact place where James had but dreamt 
naving put it; and he ought to know it well, although now 
seen at such a distance; for he had worn it day as well as 
night for the last ten or twelve years. 

So James Dullard had dreamt no dream at alL He 
must have put the night-cap, where it was now visible, 
with his own hands, or, (how the divil — God forgive us I) 
could it have got there? or, again, how could he have 
ever known that it had got there, if he had not put it 
there, inasmuch as no one had ever told him it was to 
be seen there, before he went out with his neighbor, in 
consequence of his abominable suspicion, and plainly saw 
it there? The matter was a puzzle, and a very nervous 
one. He partially admitted the act to be his own, and he 
more than partially denied it His bewildered mind did 



father comrsuj. IT 

not know what to do. True, he had heard of people who 
walk in their sleep, ay, and who even climb in their sleep; 
but how could he climb, either awake or asleep, whose 
joints were so old and rusted that they scarcely served him 
to creep out from his loom, every day for about an hour, to 
enjoy the fresh air, and particularly up to the very pinnacle 
of that dreaded old castle ? The mystery became deeper 
and more fearful; and so it continued up to the moment 
when Jeff Corrigan told the story. 

He ceased, and there was again a pause of doubt and 
awe among the listeners; and even Father Connell did not 
now laugh outright He took it into his head, however, to 
go up and down amongst them all, sage men and boys as they 
were, collecting their opinions as to how the thing could 
really have occurred; and when a most absurd and amus- 
ing mass of interpretations had been delivered, then indeed 
he enjoyed his hearty fit of laughter ; informing them that, 
chancing to have been called out, to attend, on horseback, 
a remote country "call" (a summons from a dying person) 
upon the morning when James Dullard ventured out in 
quest of his night-cap — some time before James got up, 
however — he had himself seen Ned Roach's thievish pet 
jackdaw busily employed at the top of the old building, 
in placing, on the point, where even at this instant it was 
visible to all observers, the old red night-cap. And here 
Ned Roach, the shoe-maker, joined egotistically in the 
priest's laugh at the feat of his jackdaw ; and, the pressure 
of superstitious terror, in various shapes, removed off their 
spirits, great indeed was its echo throughout all the as- 
sembled guests. 

A few other tales, as we have before hinted, enlivened 
the circle, which we again aver we must postpone, — but 
not for a long time even from our present all-devouring 
reader. And songs now took up, as a finale, the entertain- 
ment of the evening ; and many old Irish ones were pretty 
well given by some of the men of the choir ; and " Crazy 
Jane, and "Death and the Lady," and "Begone, dull 
care," and so forth, were droned out by others of them. 
Father Connell himself, being called upon, tried to recollect 
the only song — we do not know what song — that he had 
learned in his early youth, but after repeated failures in 
his own mind, and half irritated by his sense of the ne« 



18 FATHER CONNELL. 

cessity of contributing to the mirth of his revellers, he 
suddenly broke out into a joyous Latin hymn, and art 
suddenly stopped short, grievously scandalized at himself; 
• nd then, to cover his confusion, he appealed to "his boys," 
to help him out with his "portion of mirth ;" upon which 
all of them became dumb and sheep-faced, except his old 
pet, Neddy Fennell, who, when no one else would befriend 
his patron, in this urgency, nimbly stepped to the middle 
of the floor, and with the small portion of a "Biddy 
Doyle " in one hand, and a half finished mug of ale in the 
other, sang with much spirit and fun, if not with skill or 
science, " Billy O'Rourke was the boy for it — whoo 1" 

This little display affected his parish priest in a peculiar 
way. Perhaps it was the first time he had ever heard a 
song of such a character ; but however that might be, the 
old man now looked amazed, and as if admiringly, on such 
a new proof of the cleverness of his young friend ; and 
then, as the little fellow swayed his body and limbs, and 
frisked here and there, humoring the burden of his melody, 
Father Connell smiled and winked his eyes, and laughed, 
and wagged his head from side to side, and almost at- 
tempted to whistle, in unison with the unexpected talent 
and capers of the public performer before him ; and when 
Neddy had finished, he beckoned to him, took the pretty 
boy in his arms, kissed him, played with his auburn hair, 
made him promise over and over again to be a good boy, 
slid a shilling into his pocket, although at that time neither 
Neddy Fennell nor any of his family wanted such a 
donation; and finally, laying his hands on the urchin's 
shoulders, gently forced him down on his knees, to give 
him his blessing. 

And Father ConnelTs soiree almost so ended. True, he 
topped the delight of all his juvenile guests by giving them 
each a silver sixpence, as a Christmas-box ; and cordially 
gratified and made important in their own estimation, the 
seniors of " the choir " by very often shaking hands with 
them at parting, whilst every one received with bent 
heads and knees, their old pastor's blessing. But with 
Utile Neddy Fennell he lingered at his humble postern 
door when they were quite alone; again put his arms 
round him, again kissed him, while Neddy thought he felt 
a warm tear drop ou his sunny cheek ; and again, and 



FATHER CORNELL. 19 

again, besought him to promise to be good, sighs of ap- 
prehensive doubt for the future — as we know them to 
have been — now and then interrupted the voice of the 
monitor. 

And since our hero, Father Connell, has now proved 
himself so interested about the present and future welfare 
of Neddy Fennell, we may be allowed to give one back 
chapter, to the past situation of little Neddy, embracing, 
necessarily, incidents concerning his father and mother, 
which we believe will not be found uninteresting. 



CHAPTER m. 



Neddy Fennell's father, Atty, or Arthur Fennell, had 
oeen a glover in the only respectable street of the town, 
forming the city portion of Father ConnelTs extensive 
country parish. Atty, in his early youth, was a comely 
looking lad, single-hearted, simple-minded, yet wise and 
prudent; trustworthy, industrious, and skilful in his trade; 
sincerely punctual in his religious duties, and, for all the 
reasons suggested by this short description of him, re- 
spected and esteemed by his master, " Simon Bergin, the 
glover." 

When Arthur was about seventeen, the only child of his 
master and mistress became apprenticed to a mantuamaker 
— for, although her parents were well to do in the world, 
and loved to excess their beautiful little pet, they would 
not bring her up in idleness. And indeed little Fanny 
Bergin deserved her father and mother's love, as much on 
account of her rare beauty, as for her sweet disposition, 
shown in her constant s< ft smile, her gentle fairy voice, 
her obedience, and her general feminineness of character. 

Fanny spent the day in the house of the person to whom 
she was apprenticed, returning, however, to her father's 
roof for the night. To guard her against all imaginable 
mishaps, whether from rude people, or from rude weather, 
Simon and Mrs. Bergin deemed that a competent escort 
was quite necessary on her return home in the evenings 



20 FATHER COffNlLL. 

To this office they appointed Atty FenneH, thus it would 
seem giving him beforehand a kind of intimation of a fuller 
confidence, as regarded their darling and only child, to be 
hereafter placed in him. Atty well discharged his task. 
He would whisk with his cudgel — that cudgel which was . 
ready to encounter a giant in her defence — the very straws 
from her path, in fine weather; and, if it rained, his in* 
structions entitled him to bear Fanny home in his arms; — 
so that on wet and dark evenings he used to enter, with 
his light burden, into the little parlor, where her father 
and mother sat to the fire, his lantern swinging from the 
middle finger of his left hand, and the ostentatious cudgel 
tucked under his right arm. 

Time rolled on, and it is needless to say how ail this 
ended. Every one will guess that in a few years after 
Arthur was out of his apprenticeship, and Fanny also 
unshackled from the bonds of her professional mistress, 
they were, after having been a long while before very sin- 
cerely in love with each other, married, to their own hearts' 
content, as also to the full gratification even of the parents 
of the almost over-cared-for little bride; as to the bride- 
groom's father and mother, no consent could have been 
asked of them, for they were dead, having left, however, in 
the hands of a careful trustee, a sum locally sufficient, and 
indeed considerable, to enable Atty to engage, when out of 
his apprenticeship, in any enterprise on his own account, 
with a befittim? show of independence — a circumstance, by 
the way, which, highly and deservedly as Mr. and Mrs. 
Bergin valued the plain, honest, though rather simple 
character of Arthur, might have much assisted their final 
resolves for surrendering into his future protection the 
welfare and happiness of their little Fanny, with all her 
soft smiles, gentleness, clinging and dependent affection, 
and yet nearly weakness of disposition. Besides, their 
idol was not absolutely to be separated from them. Ar- 
thur Fennell and she were to continue to abide under their 
paternal roof; and thus, four people who loved each other 
better than they loved all the world besides, would for 
many a long year form a delightful family circle— with per 
haps the addition, in a few of those many happy years, of 
some little strangers, whose feelings would soon be inter- 
woven into its web of domestic felicity. 



FATHER COVVCLL. 21 

60, the sun of hope, the brightest and the most on* 
alouded eon that ever shone, or ever can shine on mortal 
creatures, blazed in absolute brilliancy upon the coming 
nuptials of poor Atty and his dear little Fanny Bergin. 
Yet, alas, big a liar as hope is, she never told bigger lies 
in all her life— that is to say, since the beginning of the ? 
world, with which, we do think she was born, purely for f 
the purpose of keeping it delusively twirling on — the old 
gratuitous cheat, never, we repeat, told a bigger lie than 
on the occasion of which we now speak. Her lies were 
not to be sure immediately found out; for years and years 
she "lied like truth," — small praise to her, experienced 
practitioner in her art as she is; and — but let us not anti- 
cipate in this unskilful fashion. 

Without a cloud, or the speck of one, in the sky of their 
seeming future lot, Atty and Fanny prepared for their 
marriage-day; pure hearts, primitive minds, rational cal- 
culations, perfect love, and, u it be possible to say so of 
human beings in such a state of eitatic anticipation, re- 
ligious duties, above all other observances, presiding over 
their arrangements. Atty, in particular, was swayed on 
the momentous occasion by his former pious habits. Re- 
garding marriage as a sacrament, and a most solemn one, 
he disciplined himself fitly to receive it, by previously ap- 
proaching other sacraments of his church ; those, namely, 
of Penanoe and of the Eucharist And if ever a man 
entered into the married state with devoted love for his 
wife, and at the same time with a holy sense of the sin 
of even slightly infringing upon the vow of fidelity to be 
pledged to her at the altar, that man was Arthur FennelL 

He was married. For about two years the juggling 
prophet, we have rather bitterly spoken of, proved true; 
all was indeed happiness in the united families; but now 
came Hope's lie the first. Old Simon Bergin died suddenly; 
his terrified and pining wife soon followed him to the 
grave; and thus ended the treacherous promise held out 
to them of the " many happy, happy long years " they were 
to enjoy with their children and with their children's chil- 
dren. Again, however, so far as regarded Arthur, every 
thing appeared perfectly to brighten up. His industry 

E'ned him great success in his trade; that success some 
le wealth of course, so that he grew into a respected 



22 FATHER CONNELL. 

citizen; and, unfortunately for his poor wife and onty tiiild, 
he at length deemed himself called on, that he might be 
enabled to supply the increasing demands made upon his 
shop to engage a confidential journeyman, who was also 
to have considerable control over his accounts and receipts. 
A confidential journeyman! — a tall, spare-limbed, thin- 
lipped, solemn-faced, smooth-tongued hypocrite j — a canting, 
precise, cruel scoundrel and robber. Arthur, however, did 
not know this— out of his very nature could not know it; 
in his own estimation, therefore, he was growing richer 
and richer every day; and over all his worldly thriving and 
enjoyment, the star of love still and still twinkled brilliant- 
ly on; indeed, as a little instance of the undiminished 
affection existing now for a considerable period between 
him and his ever-enchanting Fanny, poor Arthur would 
often send for her, in the midst of his daily industry, to 
come a moment to speak with him ; and when she had 
obeyed his summons, all he had to say was, " I only wanted 
to look at you, my darling; " and when, after mildly an- 
swering the fond glance of his eyes, Fanny withdrew, he 
would re-engage, with redoubled vigor, in his more import- 
ant occupations. 

Arthur became — and Hope's lie the second, and the most 
tremendous one of all she had ever uttered, at least to our 
unsuspecting friend, is now to be exposed — Arthur became 
a member of " the Charitable society " of his native city. 
This was an association composed of the respectable por- 
tion of the middle classes of his fellow-townsmen, and 
established for the weekly relief of poor bed-ridden objects. 
To be elected a member of it, when three black beans could 
have excluded him, was a flattering proof of the rising es- 
timation in which he was held ; and Fanny and he often 
gloried over the circumstance in their fireside commen- 
taries together; and they for some time wondered, and 
wondered upon what evening he might expect, according 
to the observances of the society, to be summoned as 
president at one of its weekly sittings. That proud even- 
ing came at last ; and, after kissing his little wife again and 
again, Arthur Fennell issued forth, dressed in his best, to 
assume his new dignity. 

He took the chair ^ the business of the evening was 
precisely and soberly gone through; — the solemn little 



FATHER CONNBIL. 23 

secretary closed bis books ; — and neighborly enjoyment and 
good-fellowship became the order of the now merely social 
meeting. Hot tumblers of punch stood at the right hand 
of each member, and were now and then replenished ; and 
the new president, although previously almost a " tee-total- 
ler," conceived himself called upon to patronize the usages 
of those around him. And jests, and good things, were 
cracked and uttered on every side, and anon certain marked 
individuals were cajoled into repeating oft-repeated, and 
often laughed at egotistical stories ; in listening to which, 
though not half comprehending the suppressed ridicule 
chuckling in the breasts of the general company towards 
the narrators, Arthur Fennell laughed more vigorously 
than any one present. 

For the secretary, a round little bundle of a man, want- 
ing three inches of five feet, and a schoolmaster to boot, 
was decoyed into a description, which the wags of the 
society induced him to give, almost weekly, of several des- 
perate naval engagements, in which he had performed 
wonders of valor. " Myself and another able-bodied sea- 
man," he would very often say, " did so and so, or were en • 
gaged in such and such an achievement;" at which, glancing 
at the "ableness" of his body, or else commenting upon the 
small bravado style in which he delivered the history of 
his exploits, the clever ones winked in keen enjoyment 
upon each other. In fact, the mendacious little man had, 
to their knowledge, never been to sea at all. 

And another celebrated exaggerator, a shopkeeper, in 
"the main street," having once, upon a great urgency, 
absolutely journeyed to London, detailed in a very peculiar 
way some of the marvels he had there witnessed. Amongst 
other things, he was now coaxed into a repetition of his 
famous account of the manners of the buffalo, seen at a 
menagerie. After describing on a gigantic scale, the bodily 
proportions of this animal, he would proceed to imitate 
fully to his own satisfaction, its various cries and bellow 
ings ; and — having been purposely placed by the side ol 
some very young member of the club — and therein lay 
the cream of the jest — he would finally illustrate some of 
the buffalo's actions, by suddenly seizing by the collar, with 
both his hands, his astounded neighbor, and butting with 
such ferocity into the breast and stomach of the man, 

% 



24 FATHER C0NVELL. 

while he still bellowed quite terrifically, that shouts of ap» 
plause and laughter convulsed his audience. 

There was a naturalist, too, who gave a minute account 
of how barnacles are engendered, out of pieces of old ship 
timber, found floating in the sea, to the sides of which any 
curious observer might find them clinging in myriads ; and 
another close inspector of wonders, who insisted that the 
sheet-lead used by plumbers, was manufactured out of a 
"certain" kind of sand; and, in fact, many and many 
were the miraculous things which, intoxicated with the 
important novelty of his situation, as well as with a too 
frequent, though almost unconscious use of another stim- 
ulant, Arthur Fennell enjoyed, and sat out ; until finally 
even the most inured "good fellows" of the society began 
to prepare for going home, and as he tried demurely to 
wish them good-night, and pass with a would-be-staid step 
out of the room, they did not fail to remark, still for their 
own amusement, how flushed was the face, how meaning- 
less the eye, how thick the utterance, and how drunken 
were the limbs, of the hitherto most particularly sober, 
and prudent^ and respectable glover. 

Although the club had dissolved at its very latest usual 
hour, it was still not late in the night, in fact, not eleven 
o'clock — and the night was a very beautiful one too. The 
moon shone bright and clear over one half of the streets, 
while it threw over the other half a broad shadow, termi- 
nating at its edges in grotesque and exaggerated likenesses 
of jutting roofs, gables, and old and new-fashioned chim- 
neys and chimney-tops. No shop was open, and scarcely 
a light to be seen in the windows even of the private aris- 
tocratic houses of the little city ; and not a human sound 
broke the stillness of the scene ; for even at this early hour 
scarce a creature appeared abroad. But though human 
sounds were absent you could catch a few others: the 
flitting of the bat by your ears, the sharp bark of soma 
stray or unhoused dog, the crisp chirping of crickets, aa 
you passed close by a baker's shop-door ; with above all 
the rush and fall of the river, near at hand, over its weirs. 

When Arthur Fennell, emerging from the lane in which 
were held the sittings of his club, gained the main street, 
it was, however, soon filled with human sounds, indeed — 
those, namely, of his own loud laughter, as, with his hat 



FATHER CONNELL. 25 

rakifihly to one side of his hot head, he now btaggered 
along, quite abandoning, in the confirmed intoxication 
caused by the open air, his late attempts to look sober, 
control his swollen tongue, and walk properly. "And 
oh !" he would cry — " Oh, that able-bodied sayman ! and 
Nick Magrath, the buffalo man !" and he clapped his hands 
in very rapture, and still laughed out in roars. Turning 
the wrong way for going home, he arrived at the shambles 
of the town, before which stood some huge chopping-blocks, 
mounted on very long legs, and clambering up on one of 
these, he set his arms akimbo, and danced heartily upon it 
to his own whistling. Suddenly, however, he recollected 
that he really was not on the true road homewards ; and 
so he clambered down from the chopping-block, and gained 
the street again ; and now his drunkenness changed into 
another mode. And thereupon Arthur became observantly 
and sagely drunk. The bright, quiet, moonlight, and the 
quaint terminations of the shadows produced by it, were 
noticed ; and though he felt half inclined again to laugh 
out at the fantastic shapes assumed by the edges of the 
latter, as they seemed to dance and intermingle oefore his 
eyes, still he was able to suppress the now unseemly im- 
pulse, and indulged on the whole in a grave contemplation 
of the wonders of nature and of art 

He arrived at the market-house or tholsel, and struck by 
its little pillars and arches, sat down a short time before it, 
fully to gratify his architectural tastes; and — "Yes," he 
cried, in his locally patriotic enthusiasm — " Yes, let them 
look at that!— they may talk of their Dublins, and their 
Londons, and thoir ould Homes, and other foreign places 
— but let them look at that, I say — there it's for them — 
(hiccup) — there it's for them, before their eyes, to look at 
for a patthern — (hiccup) — 1" 

He arose from his sitting posture on the cold stones, and 
wending still homewards, gained the middle of the bridge, 
beyond which he had to proceed but a few yards to his 
own door. Here, in the moonlight views up and down 
the banks of the crystal stream, which the bridge spanned, 
Arthur had, indeed, subject for observation of the beautiful 
in nature ; and though but vaguely responding to its calls 
upon his notice, he yet stopped short to admire and mutter 
his admiration to himself. The unusual novelty of foot- 



26 FATHER CONNELL. 

steps sounding through the silence around him, startled 
our friend, and he looked backward and forward; two 
women approached him, advancing from the centre of the 
town in the direction he had himself come. 

Drunk as he was, Arthur immediately recognised these 
persons. They were sisters, living in his own street ; the 
elder a widow, who even during the lifetime of her husband, 
had, perhaps, more than indicated to Arthur, though to his 
utter disgust, approval of his well-proportioned figure and 
handsome face ; and she had not been otherwise a woman 
of interesting character. But, upon this unfortunate night, 
Arthur forgot everything unpleasant in her past life, only 
recollecting, for the first time, with vanity, her former flat- 
tering attentions to him. 

So, when the ladies stopped in a neighborly way, to bid 
him good-night, Arthur politely returned their salutation. 
They mentioned that they had been to a very pleasant 
evening party in the town, which was the cause of their 
being out so late. Arthur answered with a description of 
the happy evening he had himself passed, at the Charitable 
Society ; and accounts of the respect shown to him there, 
and of the able-bodied seamen, and of the buffalo man, and 
then of the beautiful pillars and arches of the Tholsel, fol- 
lowed ; and next came his reasons for suddenly stopping 
on the bridge, as he motioned up and down the river, 
speaking fast and thick ; at which his neighbor, the widow, 
replied in a poetical vein, her hand resting on his arm, and 
Arthur admiring that hand, and then its owner's face, in 
the moonlight, thought and said, that both were very hand- 
some; — and finally, at the lady's pressing invitation, he 
agreed to see her home to her door ; and when they ar- 
rived at it, Arthur farther agreed to step in and take a 
little bit of supper — a proposition to which his drunken 
stomach immediately yearned. 

About four hours afterwards, he was rushing from that 
house, out of a fevered and hideous sleep 1 He ran wildly, 
and still staggering, though now not with intoxication, up 
and down his peaceful little street His hands and his 
teeth were clenched, his lips apart and frothy; his eyes 
distended, bloodshot, and fixed, and all his other features 
haggard and rigid. His dress was disordered too, and he 
was bare-headed, and he often fell on his knees, groaning 



FATHER CONNELL. 27 

miserably, tossing his hands, and beating his breast. In 
fact, the heavy throes of remorse, shame, and despair, were 
upon him ; consciousness of unpardonable sin, of a breach 
of his marriage vow, and towards his own beloved, fond, 
and chaste-hearted wife. " Never, never can I again raise 
my face to her face," he resolved in his own heart and 
mind, " no, nor to the face of any human creature — I am 
a lost man — and something here/' again striking his breast, 
"tells me that the life will not stay long in me, to be shame- 
ful to any one." 

Becoming in the wretched quietness of despair a little 
calmer, he walked to his own door, stealthily looking to 
either side, and before him, to ascertain if any chance pas- 
senger might be at hand to observe him ; but he was still 
alone. He stood at the door, and raised his hand to its 
knocker, but turned from it again. Over and over, he came 
back, and over and over walked away from that hitherto 
happy threshold. At length, now very feeble, and with a 
deadly heart-beat, and leaning against the walls of the 
houses for support as he came along, Arthur dared to 
knock ; but so weakly, that those within could not have 
heard him. After a horrible pause he ventured to repeat 
the summons. 

He heard a footstep inside, and bent down his head 
upon his outspread hands. The door opened, and his 
wife's old aunt appeared, holding a light After one look 
at him, she started back. He staggered in, and without a 
word sank exhausted in a little parlor to one side of the 
entrance passage. The old woman followed him, greatly 
terrified. 

"The Lord preserve us, Attv, my darling," she began, 
M what's the meaning of all this? and what has happened 
you? Why, your very lips are as white as paper, and 
there is something like death in your face." 

"Is there, aunt? — death! — I'm glad of that — and glad 
that you can see it so soon." He spoke hoarsely, and in 
gasps, while his hand was held tightly over his chest. 
"And there ought to be death in my face." 

" The Lord be good to us ! Jell me, Atty, what has come 
over you?" 

"Is — is Fanny — is my — is she in bed?" he asked. 

"Och, yes, Arthur ; in bed these four hours, and more; 



28 rATHER C0NNELL, 

she was complaining a little, and I persuaded her to lie 
down." 

" About four hours ago/' he repeated, and a low shud- 
dering moan escaped him. "Aunt Mary, will you make 
up the little bed in the back-garret for me ? for I won't 
lie down, this night, or this morning rather, in any other 
bed — no, nor any other night, nor any other morning." 

"Arthur Fennell ! tell me, I bid you — as Fanny's nearest 
living relation, I bid you tell me all" 

"£isten then," and in a hoarse, croaking whisper, he did 
tell her all ; adding — 

" And so, Aunt Mary, you now see that I can never again 
lay down my head on my pillow in my good wife's bed ; — 
no, nor ever kiss her lips ; — no, nor ever put shame even on 
her little hand, by taking it in mine, no ; — I am a thraitor 
to her and to my God ; and the only thing I can hope to 
do, before the death, you saw in my face, relieves me, is to 
try, and pray to Him to have mercy upon my sinful, sinful 
souL" 

His old confidante heard the poor fellow's admissions at 
first, certainly in anger, but quickly after in full compas- 
sion. She stared at him, and the expression of his face, 
manner, and actions seemed ominously to confirm his 
heart-uttered forebodings of death. She trembled and 
wept profusely, and at length said — 

" No, my poor Arthur, no ; you must not quit your own 
old bed ; you are very sorry for what has happened ; and 
it is your first falling off ; and the God you ask forgiveness 
of, will forgive you ; and Fanny will forgive you too, and 
you are very ill ; so come up with me, I say." 

" Indeed and I am sick, dear aunt, and want to lie down 
in a bed, but not in the bed you speak of; no, never, 
never ; and as you, may be, think it a trouble to make up 
that little garret bed for me, I will try and make it up for 
myself." 

He half arose from the floor. 

" Stop, Atty dear — the garret is damp, and the bed is 
damp, and you will do yourself harm." 

" Too good, too good, for one like me ; give me the light, 
aunt" He scrambled up to his feet. 

The old woman was ooliged to follow him with the can- 
dle, still weeping and shaking. At the bottom of the little 



FATHER COffKSLL. 29 

stairs lie slid off his shoes ; and crept upwards, and parti- 
cularly by the door of his wife's bed-room, with the caution 
of a thief. The 'garret bed was arranged for him, and he 
wearily fell into it, hiding his face and head in its covering. 
The afflicted attendant withdrew, with still streaming 
eyes, to her own place of rest, not able to make up her 
mind, at such an hour, to awaken her neice, and tell her 
what bad happened Fanny, about to get up, at her usual 
morning time, missed her husband, and perceived that he 
had not the previous night been in bed. Greatly alarmed, 
she quickly sought an explanation from her aunt. Still, all 
the poor old creature could force herself to say, was, that 
Arthur, on his late return home, had found himself ill, and 
lain down in the garret bed. 

Fanny flew up stairs. His head was still hidden under 
the bed-covering. She spoke to him, and was answered 
only by broken-hearted moans. She gently withdrew the 
covering. She saw his collapsed, and indeed death-stricken 
features. His white lips moved rapidly, but his sunken 
eyes were closed hard — he dared not, fulfilling his own 
fearful foreboding, look up at her. She peered closer, and 
there was blood about his mouth, and large blotches of \ 
stained the sheets. She screamed, and threw herself by his 
side, beseeching him to say what ailed him, and offering 
every endearment of affection, which, to her astonishment, 
were all refused ; and then he muttered a few words : " No, 
no, no, my own darling— do not touch me— do not come 
near me— do not speak to me — I do not deserve it — but go 
down stairs, and say to Aunt Mary that I bid her tell you 
everything that I told her." 

His wife soon acquired the necessary information ; again 
ran up to his bedside, "And is that all," she said, smiling 
and crying together, " is that all, to make you turn your 
face from your wife and your God, and lie down to die in 
this unwholesome garret ? Arthur, it was not your fault — 
it was not your fault, Arthur, dear 1 you were not master 
of yourself — and you were tempted, Arthur— come, look 
up at me, Arthur — I forgive you from my heart — this very 
instant I forgive you— only look up and smile, Arthur V 

But he only could answer, "I cannot, Fanny; I have 
sinned terribly against God and you, and never, never an 
I to hold up my head again." 



SO FATHER CORNELL. 

A fresh effusion of blood followed. Physicians were sent 
for. They advised quiet and repose — the very things un- 
attainable by their patient. In a few days his heart again 
partially freed itself, by still another erring and wasteful 
flow of its vital fountain. The physicians now advised a 
visit with all speed from his clergyman. Father Connell 
attended the summons. He found, indeed, a sincere peni- 
tent,.hopeful of forgiveness in another life, but shuddering- 
ly shrinking from a continuance of existence in this world. 
The old man wept like a child at the sight of the dry-eyed 
anguish of the wife, as, before his departure she came in, 
at his wish,, again to try her power in cheering and com- 
forting ; and he witnessed the first kiss, which, since poor 
Arthur's falling off, he could bring himself to receive from 
his wife's lips. Going down stairs, the priest was beset in 
his way by his little chapel pet, Neddy, who, crying bitter- 
ly, saw him to the street door. He squeezed the boy's 
hands tightly, over and over, and told him he would come 
back early next morning — it was now far in the night. 
He kept his promise. Neddy again met him at the door 
of the house. 

" Well, my child," asked the old priest, " and how is he 
to-day? M 

"Dead, sir," answered his favorite, flinging himself 
against the inquirer's knees. 



CHAPTER IV. 



C When Father Connell first undertook the care of the 
parish in which he ministered until he died, the whole 
code of penal laws against Catholics was in full force, and, 
according to one of them, no papist could impart literary 
instruction, either privately or as a teacher in a publio 
school, without subjecting himself to fines and imprison- 
ment. Yet, under hedges in byways, and in gravel pits, 
or in confidential, or in lonely suburb houses, contra- 
band education wag stealthily whispered to ignorant youth 
and childhood. 



FATHER CONNELL. 81 

The predecessor of Father Connell had contrived to 
found and maintain, on a very humble scale indeed, in a 
cabin in the outskirts of the town in which he lived, an 
illicit seminary for the instruction of the poorer children 
of his flock, and by great exertion, and many stratagems, 
his^BUccessor endeavored to follow up his example — though, 
indeed, by this time of day, much of the good man's pre- 
caution might have been spared ; for the unmerciful and 
wanton law, which doomed to helpless ignorance an entire 
population, had for many years been looked upon as too 
barbarous to be literally observed ; so that — thanks to the 
self-asserting principle of justice in the general human 
bosom — even the very magistrates appointed to enforce 
the unholy statute, winked at the smuggling system of 
education which was going on almost under their eyes. 

And something like better days now began to dawn on 
the efforts of Father Connell. In the year 1780 this law 
was repealed. Little ragged papists could at last go to 
school openly and legally, and shout as shrilly as any of 
their Protestant contemporaries, when let loose from its 
threshold Our priest, therefore, determined to erect, in 
the shabby straggling suburb in which was his own poor 
dwelling, an absolutely public school-house for the instruc- 
tion of the children of the indigent. 

The question, however, soon presented itself ; where 
could funds be obtained to purchase even the materials 
for building the contemplated edifice? 

In truth he did hot know. Private means he had not ; 
in fact, his daily extravagance in giving often left himself a 
creditor for his dinner ; so he pondered seriously for some 
time, until at length a happy thought struck him, and with 
a mixture of simple and great glee of heart, and yet as 
great perseverance of head, he proceeded to carry it into 
effect 

Might not the poor urchins themselves be made contri- 
butors to the uprearing of a building to be appropriated to 
their own advantage ? To be sure they might ; and work- 
ing his hands together, and smiling to himself in the 
solitude of his little parlor, he at once went to work on his 
project. He purchased for the poorest of his future 
scholars a great many wooden bowls ; others of them pro* 
vided themselves with some such implement of industry ; 



1 FATHER CONNELL. 

and in a short time, almost all the ragged little fellows in 
the parish might be seen running here and there like a 
swarm of bees — not indeed in quest of honey, but of a few 
straggling stones, wherever they could be found ; and 
when these were obtained, heaping them into their wooden 
bowls and other utensils, and then trotting with their 
acquisitions to a place appointed for the accumulation of a 
grand pile, destined for the erection of their own pariah 
poor school. 

These small laborers had received strict injunctions, to 
appropriate solely such stones as they should meet scat- 
tered along the roads and suburb streets, and which could 
not be called the property of any particular person. Yet 
it has been rumored that when a scarcity of unclaimed 
material began to prevail amongst them, our zealous pur- 
veyors were not over nice in ascertaining whether this or 
that stone belonged to this or that individual ; nay, we 
have it on authority, that a good many infringements on 
private property were committed by them ; certainly with- 
out the Knowledge of Father Connell, as we trust need not 
be stated. And it also became impossible that among the 
heterogenous mass of stones, great and small, now rapidly 
swelling in bulk, the owners of the unlawfully abstracted 
portions of it could recognise any evidence of the theft 
perpetrated on his or her old wall or loose enclosure. 

No matter; after some time the heap increased to a 
magnitude fully equal to the hopes and to the architectural 
plan and calculations of our good priest ; and greater than 
ever was his glee on the occasion. It might indeed have 
been whispered by shrewd commentators, that the great 
pyramid before which he now stood with admiring eyes, 
was not composed of stones of the best quality, or best 
suited to the purpose for which they had been intended ; 
the greater part of them being in truth little better than 
pebbles. Other critics whispered that such as they were, 
they had cost Father Connell nearly, if not altogether, as 
much as good square blocks from the quarry might have 
been purchased for ; and indeed such was the fact. 

But great had been his delight in observing from day to 
day, the questing excursions of his little stone-gatherers ; 
there was, he argued to himself, industry, and therefore 
utility in the whole proceeding; and then the pigmy 



FATHER CONNBLL. 88 

laborers seemed so brisk and happy at their task, that 
their childlike, though not childish employer — for there if 
a mighty difference between these two epithets — fullj 
entered into their feelings, and he and they became thr 
best friends in the world. And hence few of them eve 
went home of an evening empty-handed; a dinner or 
some pence rewarded the day's exertions ; and from these 
circumstances very plausibly arose the conjecture, that 
apart altogether from the quality and fitness of his biff 
heap of stones, the priest had, even in a pecuniary point of 
view, no great bargain of it in the end. 

Another heap of another description of building material 
was now necessary — namely one of sand, and for this the 
bowl bearers were also sent out to quest — and exuberant 
success again crowned their efforts — although cunning 
judges still hinted that this acquisition, as well as the 
former one, had been bought dearly enough. 

But however all this might be, what with well-begged 
donations from every class of society within his reach, and 
contributions from his own pocket, whenever by chance he 
found a spare shilling in it, before twelve months since his 
first thought on the subject had elapsed, Father ConnelTs 
grand public school-house was erected, to the wonder and 
admiration of his Catholic parishioners, and to the unutter, 
able grievance and abomination of some of his dissenting 
ones ; the important object of interest on both sides being 
meantime nothing but a thatched house, though more 
substantial and better appointed as to the size and fashion 
of its two front windows, and its door and doorway, than 
the more reverend cabins with which it grouped, and con 
taming only two apartments on the ground-floor. If the 
critics on the occasion of the uprearing of this public 
edifice were at present alive, we wonder what they would 
say to the beautiful Catholic college now nearly finished at 
the aristocratic end of Father ConnelTs native city, and 
already inhabited by Popish ecclesiastical students, walk- 
ing under handsome colonades, in academic caps and 
gowns. Well — to say no more of the pretensions of 
Father ConnelTs parish school-house, there it was, and in 
a short time a goodly throng of the future ragged men of 
Ireland were assembled in it ; and it had been in existence 



84 FATHER CONNELL. 

twenty-five years at the time when we first introduced its 
founder to the reader's acquaintance. 

The present teacher of the establishment had been a 
pupil in it from his infancy to his early youth ; and as it 
was customary with our priest to select, from amongst his 
scholars, the one most distinguished for learning and good 
conduct, to be promoted to the very desirable station of 
"priest's boy," Mick Dempsey became at about sixteen 
years the object of his priest's patronage in this respect ; 
and after proving under his own roof, until the boy was a 
boy no longer, Mick's confirmed morality and exemplary 
behavior, the good man then pushed forward the humble 
fortunes of his late servant, by appointing him head 
teacher, master, in fact, in the school-house in which he 
had so long been a pupil — king of the realm where he had 
once been a subject 

And Mick was now a very well-clad monarch indeed, 
within the very walls which well remembered his former 
tattered inferiority; and we mention this pleasant pro- 
gression of the young man's luck in the world, that we may 
have an opportunity of relating a circumstance in connec- 
tion with his present new clothes, which took place between 
Vn'fl patron and himself. 

Every Thursday the parish priest and his curates used to 
attend, in their very humble little chapel, for the purpose 
of instructing the poor children of the parish, principally 
composed of the pupils of the school-house, in their 
chatechism ; and, during Lent, every evening after vespers 
was devoted to the same purpose. The curates each 
taught a class; but as the number requiring instruction 
was large, and made up of different ages and capacities, it 
became necessary that these clergymen should have lay 
assistants, who were afco appointed by Father Oonnell ; 
and while the boys on the earthen floor of the chapel, and 
the girls on the galleries, assembled in little groups, each 
group attending to its own instructor, the parish priest 
walked up and down, from place to place, now superin- 
tending the business of one class, and now of another. 
Amongst the lay teachers, the master of the school-house 
held of course a superior rank ; and, after his appointment 
to his new office Mick Dempsey fulfilled his duty in the 
chapel as faithfully, and as well, as his duty in the schooL 



FATHER C0NNELL. M 

For some time before the occurrence of the little scene 
we are about to describe, Mick had been attired indiffer- 
ently enough ; but on a certain evening in Lent, in the 
dimly lighted chapel, Father Connell having listened to, 
and observed, as usual, his catechism classes, one after the 
other, and reprehended or encouraged, as the case might 
call for, suddenly remarked a tall and exceedingly well 
dressed young man, in the centre of a circle grouped round 
him, very fitly discharging the office of teacher. The old 
clergyman stopped short and looked hard at the young 
man, standing at some distance from him. "Who was 
he?" questioned Father Connel — "was he a stranger, or 
had he seen him before ?" — he thought he had ; yet the 
dress, and even the air of the individual (for new clothes, 
when a rarity, do alter for the better even the very mien of 
their wearer) seemed quite strange to him. The person's 
back was, however, at present, turned to our priest, and he 
longed to look into his face ; but feeling that it might be 
an indelicacy in manners to go at once up to him and stare 
into his features, he walked down the chapel, as if quite 
unobservant, yet turning his head every now and then in 
curious criticism ; and presently he made a wide circuit, 
that the object of his interest might not suppose he was 
rudely inspecting him ; till, at length, by prudent manage- 
ment, he stood nice to face before his own schoolmaster, 
Mick Dempsey. And now he opened his smiling blue 
eyes,, and contracted his brows, and poked forward his 
head, from its usual erect position, and drew it back again, 
and stood straight as ever, and smiled and smiled until his 
whole countenance lighted up — the degree of severe au- 
thority which he had thought necessary to assnme in it, 
as befitting his character of inspector of the catechistical 
instruction, quite subsiding ; until, finally, he nodded with 
undisguised delight, and almost with familiarity, to his 
quondam "boy," now attired from head to foot in a " spick 
and span new suit " of elegant clothes. 

But, anon, he bethought that the young observers around 
him might notice his raptures, strange and unaccountable 
to them, and that such an exhibition might not, in their 
eyes, be seemly for the place and the occasion ; so he 
suddenly resumed his former austere bearing, and address- 
ing h ; s schoolmaster, said aloud — laying a particular stress 



S6 FATHER CONNELL. 

on the first word, and using much courtesy of manne 
" Mister Dempsey, I shall be glad to see you below in my 
house, when the teaching is over ; and don't fail to come, 
Mister Dempsey ; I have something very particular to speak 
about, sir." 

"Ill attend upon your Reverence," replied the woll- 
pleased, though puzzled Mister Dempsey ; and more puz- 
zled was he when the old priest moved the lids of one of his 
eyes into an action, which could not indeed be callod that 
of a wink, for we doubt if he had been guity of such a 
thing since his ordination — but still moved them in a 
fashion which very much resembled a wink ; and then he 
turned away from Mick Dempsey, to pursue the routine 
of his business of the evening, still looking back, however, 
very often to the person who had so charmed him, and 
whenever their eyes met still nodding and smiling. 

The evening's instructions terminated ; Mister Dempsey 
followed Father Connell to his house, and found him anx- 
iously awaiting his arrival 

"Mick, Mick, is that you? Is that you, Mick?" began 
the priest, gently rubbing his hands within each other, 
and again smiling with peculiar pleasure, while he drop- 
ped the term Mister ; which he had deemed fit to assume 
in the chapeL 

" Indeed, and it is myself sure enough, sir," replied Mick. 

"Upon my word, Mick, very good — very good indeed, 
Mick, upon my word, — turn round, Mick, my good boy, 
till I can have a full view of you ; very nice, very hand- 
some indeed ; and very good, Mick, I declare you are a 
good boy ; I do declare you are — a very good boy ;" and 
while thus addressing Mick Dempsey, he turned the young 
man round and round by the shoulders ; now viewing him 
in front, now in the back, and now upwards and down- 
wards, and in conclusion walking round about him, and 
clapping his hands softly together and laughing outright. 

"And now, Mick," he continued, more seriously, after 
indulging his joy; " now, Mick, I like that ! It shows that 
you don't throw away your little savings ; and isn't it a 
fine thing, Mick, for a good boy to buy elegant new clothes 
for himself, and look so decent and respectable in them, 
and not lay them out on whiskey, or cock-fighting, or 
dancing-horses, isn't it a fine thing, Mick?" 



FATHER CONNELL. ST 

* Indeed, sir," answered Mick, somewhat astray as to the 
term He should use in assenting to his own eulogy, "I 
think it's a great deal better than to use them in the other 
ways you make mention of, sir." 

"Sit down, Mick, sit down, my good boy — Peggy I" and 
here Father Connell cried out as loud as he could, and the 
burley pet son of his housekeeper appeared in the doorway 
of the parlor. " Gome in, Peggy, and look at Mick Demp» 
Bey's new ciothes, Peggy, aren't they very nice, Peggy? 
and all bought with his own earnings ; aren't they very 
nice, Peggy?'* and he again made Mick Dempsey revolve 
on his axis, for Mrs. Mulloy's inspection, who with her 
hands and arms thrust up to her elbows in her capacious 
pockets, critically analyzed her former fellow-servant's 
outside, and then happening to be in something like good 
humor on the occasion, Mrs. Mulloy pronounced Mick 
Dempsey to be a first-rate beau. 

"Bring Mick Dempsey a drink of ale, Peggy," continued 
Father Connell. "Ton my word I think he deserves a 
little treat," and Mrs. MuHoy not demurring, a pewter 
vessel of ale was shortly placed before Mick, who drank 
from it to the health of his entertainer, and to that of Mrs. 
Molloy also ; and here be it noticed, that to a measure of 
good ale was limited all the libations in which our priest 
indulged his favorites, or himself. 

Mrs. Molloy retired to her kitchen, and a silence of some 
moments ensued between Mick Dempsey and his patron, 
the latter steadfastly regarding Mick, though now evidently 
in a fit of abstraction, for his old eyes opened and shut very 
fast, and his well formed and handsome old lips, although 
uttering no sound, tried to keep up with them* At length, 
bis face unbending to its former glowing smile, he re- 
addressed Mick in a confidential whisper — 

" Now, Mick, don't you think that something handsome, 
and respectable, and a little like what gentlemen wear, 
would be very becoming, with the new clothes, Mick ? — a 
watch now, Mick, suppose a watch ! don't you think so, 
Mickr 

The schoolmaster shrewdly guessed to what the question 
might lead, but fiddling with the vessel from which he 
drank, he only assumed great innocence and unconscious- 
ness, as he said :— 



38 FATHER CONNELL. 

"I have no more money left, sir, and a watch would be 
too dear a thing for me at the present time, sir." 

" And yet for all that, Mick, the watch would show off 
the new clothes right well ; — and so, my good boy, listen 
you to me. I told you before that I did not like to see 
young men spending their money in public-houses, or 
dancing-houses, or such resorts; I believe in my heart, 
indeed I know well, that almost all the misfortunes that 
befall young people, are :o be met with in places of the 
kind ; but I do like, above ail things, to see a young boy, 
or a young girl either, dressed well, ly, even a little above 
their station, Mick, because that shows that they have a 
respect for themselves ; and self-respect, Mick, will surely 
obtain respect from others. And now, Mick, because I 
brought you up, and because I see that you are careful, 
and don't spend your money badly, and because I am sure 
that your good conduct gives good example, I will take on 
myself to bestow a token of my encouragement and ap- 
proval, where I think it is so well due. Ill give you the 
watch myself, Mick, to wear with your new clothes ; and 
you may tell the people when you take it out of your fob 
to see the hour of the day — you may tell the people, Mick, 
that your poor priest made you a present of that watch; 
and you may tell them, too, ail the reasons why he did so, 
just as you have now heard them from his own lips, — and 
when I am in my grave, and you show that watch as your 
priest's gift, it will do you' no harm to be a little proud of 
it, and people may not think the worse of you for having 
deserved it" 

As the old gentleman finished this earnest though sim- 
ple address, tears trembled in his eyes, and while the per- 
son so complimented fumbled at some expression of his 
thanks, Father Connell put on his spectacles, and busied 
himself in writing a few lines, and when he had completed 
them, he folded the paper into the form of a letter, directed 
it, handed it to Mick Dempsey, and added: — 

" Take this to Tommy Boyle, Mick," meaning by Tommy 
Boyle a wealthy and much-respected inhabitant of the 
town, fully of the middle age of human beings, on which, 
however, he still continued to bestow the appellation, by 
whom he used to address him a good many years before, 
when that person was only a boy; " take this to Tommy 



FATHER CONNELL. 89 

Boyle, Mick; I have told him in it to give yon a watch, to 
wear with your new clothes, Mhich he will charge to my 
account: 'tis not to be an expensive watch, Mick, because 
I have not much money to spare ; but I have told him to 
give you a watch to the value of four pounds ; and when 
he gives it to you, which I make no doubt he will do, 
wear it for my sake, Mick." 

The young man was sincerely thankful for this handsome 
gift, and now found words to express his feelings, promis- 
ing that he would be careful of it in remembrance of the 
donor; and the ale being despatched, and the priest wish- 
ing to be alone, Mick Dempsey bent his head to receive the 
old man's blessing; and early the next day, a flaming red 
ribbon, indicative of his watch, was seen streaming down 
the school-master's right thigh, and he was often stopped 
in the street, but not too often to feel himself much an- 
noyed at the circumstance, by humble persons requiring to 
know the hour of the day; indeed, he would very urbanely 
inform, upon that subject, any individual, man, woman, or 
child, who hinted, no matter how remotely, his or her anxi- 
ety about it 



CHAPTEB V. 



It was nearly a year after the death of Atty Fennell, that 
Father Connell paid a visit to his parish schooL Christ- 
mas-day was near at hand, and the weather horribly and 
peculiarly cold, even for Ireland in winter; that is to say, 
it snowed a great deal, or it rained a great deal, or to try 
and reconcile the two rival whims of the amiable atmos- 
phere, it sleeted even more than it snowed, or even more 
than it rained; and after that, by way of jocose variety, it 
froze hard for a few hours — following which the short- 
timed frost came down, as we natives say, in pleasing rain 
again; and all these things, it seemed happy to do over 
and over, while, through every interesting change, it blew 
keenly, all the same from every quarter; and the surface of 
the earth became uplumed and uprooted puddle; and the 



40 FATHER CONNELL. 

clouds, instead of sailing above the earth, at a convenient 
distance, absolutely sunk down upon it, or rolled familiarly 
over, or along it; and all places, and all vitality were humid, 
and shivering, and beyond human endurance, insufferable 
and abominable, in the land we sincerely love best above all 
the lands we have yet seen in this wide world. It must par- 
don us, however, this one little demur against its climate. 

Father ConnelTs business to the school-house, on the 
present .occasion, was to superintend the distribution, 
amongst the most deserving of his pupils, of certain cloth- 
ing which he had purchased for them ; indeed, if we said 
the worst clad amongst the poor creatures, we should be 
nearer to the real motive that guided him in his selection 
of objects for his benefaction. 

About fifty suits of clothes awaited his arrival in the 
school-house, some of one calibre, some of another, and 
some of another; in fact, all selected, to the best of his 
judgment, as available to boys of from about five to twelve 
or thirteen. They were of nearly uniform material; name- 
ly, a shirt, a felt hat, a grey frieze jacket and waistcoat, a 
pair of worsted stockings, and a pair of brogues, with the 
addition of a very peculiar pair of breeches or small clothes, 
locally termed a " ma-a." And of course this word " ma-a" 
requires some passing explanation from us. It was, then, 
in the first place, bestowed on the portion of dress alluded 
to, as seeming to explain its pristine nature and quality, 
by imitating the bleat or sound uttered by the animal, from 
which the substance of the article had been abstracted. 
In good truth the " ma-a" was fabricated from a sheep-skin, 
thrown into a pool of lime-water, and there left until its 
fleshy parts became corroded, and its wool of course sepa- 
rated from it ; — and with very little other preparation, it 
was then taken out, dried in the sun, and stitched with 
scanty skill in fashioning it, into something rudely resem- 
bling a pair of knee-breeches. 

Such as it might have been, however, a "ma-a" was the 
general wear of the humbler classes in the district of which 
we now treat, and at a period considerably later than that 
with which we are concerned. Its manufacture engaged 
many hands, as the term is ; but there is no such trad* 
now ; a "ma-a," alas! is not to be had for love or money 
Let us, notwithstanding, before posterity loses sight of it 



FATHHR CONNBLL. 41 

for ever, bo allowed a little longer, on our gossiping page, 
to hold up unto general admiration this once celebrated 
piece of costume. 

We are beside a standing, near the market-house, in 
High street, on a market-day, and upon it are exhibited 
"ma-as" of all sizes, from among which can be equally ac- 
commodated the peasant of six feet, and the urchin who 
dons his first masculine suit of clothes. Purchasers come 
up to the standing in turn ; one experienced young peas- 
ant selects a "ma-a," which, when drawn over his limbs, 
reaches nearly to his ancles, although eventually destined 
to button just beneath his knees, thereby making sage 
provision against the drying of the article after the next 
shower of rain — which would be sure to shrivel it up to 
half its primary dimensions; so that if he chose one, 
extending, in the first instance, only under his knees, he 
must shortly find it shrunk up to about the middle of his 
thigh. Another gigantic "country boy," unacquainted 
with this collapsing propensity in the "ma-a," which it is 
the interest of the vender very often to conceal, chooses, 
on the contrary, the tightest fitting "ma-a" suited to his 
thew and sinew, to make himself look smart at mass next 
Sunday, as is mentioned by the seller; it does, indeed, 
seem even rather too small — that which is so earnestly 
recommended to him ; and to end all doubts on the matter, 
he and the trader adjourn from the standing, the debated 
article in the hands of the latter. We follow them across 
the street into a little, unfrequented, narrow lane, curious 
to observe their proceedings; and there we notice that, 
having persuaded the rustic would-be dandy to squeeze 
himself half way into the garment, the adroit "ma-a" 
vender gripes the article at both hips — himself being a 
very strong man, he tugs and tugs, with professional dex- 
terity, lifting the half-ashamed peasant off his feet, at 
every tug, until, at last, forcing the over-strained small- 
clothes over the fellow's huge limbs, and half buttoning it 
at the knees, he sends him blushing and smiling away, 
with a slap on the thigh that sounds like one bestowed on 
a well-braced drum. But woe and treble woe to that skin- 
fitted and already straddling dupe ! On his way home the 
rain falls in torrents — the sun then shines out fiercely; and 
by the time he arrives at his mpther's door, he is a laugh- 



42 FATHER CONNELL. 

ing stock to her and his whole family. The dandy "ma-a" 
has coiled up more than midway along his thighs, very 
like damp towels tightly bound round them. 

Antiquarians ! — and all ye Un ers of the worthless obsolete I 
— forgive this digression, for you will sympathise with it 

Honestly to resume. Fifty shirts, fifty little felt hats, 
fifty frieze coats and waistcoats, fifty pairs of the now (we 
trust) immortalised " ma-as," and at least twenty-five pairs 
of stockings and brogues were heaped before Father Con- 
nell, in his school-house ; and many more than fifty poor 
little creatures assembled, upon the coldest day that came 
that year, each hoping to be chosen as a fit claimant upon 
the bounty of his parish-priest. 

On entering the school-room, the good man's compassion 
had been forcibly appealed to, as many of the almost naked 
children, ranged on the forms at either hand, turned up to 
his face (while their little bodies cringed, and their teeth 
chattered) beseeching, and yet doubting eyes, whose lids 
fluttered, and could not for a moment meet his questioning 
regard. In fact, he knew the meaning of these self-doubt- 
ing, mute appeals of the wretched urchins, and his primi- 
tive notions of justice battling with them, he was made 
unhappy. For in truth his keen glance discovered, among 
the greater number of the wearers of the petitioning faces, 
individuals who were very irregular attendants in his 
school ; whereas, the Christinas clothing had been publicly 
notified to be intended for the most regular visitants of it, 
taking always into account the most generally deserving 
also ; so that he plainly understood that a great portion of 
the present expectants were not, in point of strict school 
discipline, entitled to the promised periodical favors. 

And this discovery, while it grieved, also puzzled Father 
ConnelL Rigidly, and properly speaking, these young 
outlaws and street-idlers, who daily sinned against his 
constant admonitions, deserved no such reward. Yet how 
could he send out again, into the snow, which drifted upon 
a cutting north-east blast, against the windows of the 
school-house, their little shivering carcases? He turned 
his back upon them, looked out through the window at the 
weather, shook his head, prohibitory of the measure, while 
a few drops, too warm and fresh from the heart for that 
weather or anything else to freeze, stole from his winking 



FATHER CONNELL. 43 

Ses. He quitted the window and walked np and down 
e school-room, pondering over the difficulty in nis way. 
He sternly regarded the young vagabonds again and again ; 
and, as if in answer to his every look, they cringed together, 
more and more piteously. What was to be done ? — and he 
resumed his walk up and down the room ; and finally stop- 
ped short again, nodded, but now approvingly to himself, 
and quite upright and austerely, went to Mick Dempsey 
and addressed him. 

" Mister Dempsey/' for in this style already noticed, he 
always spoke to Mick, in the presence of his pupils ; 
" Mister Dempsey, I'd be thankful if you call over the list 
of your regular scholars, and then let every boy who 
answers to his name, come down to this end of the school* 
room;" and he bowed and waved his hand to Mr. Dempsey, 
while pronouncing aloud his last request. 

Mr. Dempsey obeyed the command; and when the 
muster-roll nad been gone through, more than twenty, 
alas, of unfortunate young scamps, not comprised in it, 
remained huddled together at the other end of the apart- 
ment, with what looks of bitter disappointment must be 
imagined. 

The priest then took Mr. Dempsey by the arm, and led 
him into a corner, where their whispered conference could 
not be overheard. 

"Mick, the poor children below are strangers to our 
school, ar'n't they, Mick ?" 

" I hardly ever saw them here before, sir ; and now they 
only come to impose on your Reverence for the Christmas 
clothing." 

" Mick, this is bitter weather, and the unfortunate little 
wretches have scarce a tatter to cover them against it, my 
good boy." 

" But they have no right to get the clothes, sir, from our 
own regular boys." 

" That is true ; very true, Mick ; and I know it is a bad 
example to encourage the idle to the loss of the indus- 
trious; so that I believe, to speak honestly and fairly, they 
ought to be turned out into the snow, without getting any 
clothes at alL But, Mick, thev'd perish, they'd perish in 
this severe weather, they would indeed, poor little creat- 
ures— -they'd perish, Mick;" and he took the schoolmaster'* 



44 FATHER CONN ELL. 

hand and squeezed it, and shook it, and looked into his 
eyes appealingly, as if he would turn him from the rigid 
justice of the case, to its more merciful side. 

" It would be a cruel thing, Mick," he continued, " to 
send them out, to have the snow and the biting wind going 
through their naked bodies?" 

" It would indeed, sir, but — " 

The priest stopped him, before he could go beyond the 
admission he sought for; he did not want to hear the other 
side of the question at alL " Well, well, Mick ; — ay ;" and 
he more emphatically squeezed the hand he held, while his 
old face grew bright again. "I think I see how we are to 
manage it;" and now he whispered certain instructions 
into the schoolmaster's ear, holding his mouth very close 
to that organ, lest a breath of the purpose of his plan 
should be overheard. 

"Give me the cat-o'-nine-tails, sir," he said next, in a 
loud and tyrannical voice; and having received into his 
hands the awful weapon, he walked with a lowering 
brow, and a more than ever erect person, towards the now 
terrified candidates for attire which they had not de- 
served. 

" You unfortunate little street-trotting sinners," he said, 
"how dare you come here to attempt to impose on Mr. 
Dempsey and myself ? you have never come here before, 
or very seldom at least ; and you have spent the time, you 
ought to have spent here, in idleness, and of course in sin; 
for don't you know, that idleness is the father and mother 
of sin, and that sin destroys both the body and the soul? 
don't you know all this, you little vagabonds? And yet, 
like the drones of the bee-hive, you would now devour the 
honey without having helped to gather it in ; yes — you now 
come here to ask for rewards that belong to more deserv- 
ing boys; but 111 give you your true reward; 111 flog every 
one of you, one after the other, and that will keep you 
warm ; every one of you." Having delivered this oration 
in a tremendous voice, he flourished the cat-o'nine-tails 
above his head, and all the offenders (except one, who 
stood in suppressed glee on the threshold of the doorway, 
half observant, and wholly prepared to escape into the 
street the moment it might, become urgently necessary), 
all the offenders emitted an anticipating yell of torture, 



FATHER CONNELL. 45 

and jumped up on the forms, or even on the desk, or knelt 
down, or rolled over each other on the dusty floor. 

But the flourishing of the cat-o'-nine-tails was a signal 
agreed upon between Mick Dempsey and himself; and 
Mick, therefore, now advanced towards the seemingly en- 
raged patron of the school. 

"Come, Mr. Dempsey, have all these young cheats 
flogged one by one, for bad and idle boys, and for impos- 
ing on you and me." 

Louder than ever arose the despairing shrieks of. the 
culprits. 

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mick, "but may be if 
you forgive them, they will be better boys for the future." 

"Ohl we will, sir, we will— it's we that will!" shouted 
the score of impostors. 

"I'm afraid there is little chance of that, Mr. Dempsey," 
gloomily demurred the priest 

"If his Reverence forgives you, will you promise to be 
good boys for the time to come ?" 

A new and overpowering assent was given to the school* 
master's proposition. 

" Well ; if I thought they would mend, I might be pre- 
vailed upon to forgive them," resumed Father Oonnell; 
"but is there any one here to go bail for them?" 

" I will myself, sir ; 111 be their bail to you that they will 
be good boys and attend to their school, sir." 

"Very good; very good, Mr. Dempsey;— do you hear 
what the master says, ye young sinners ?" 

The persons addressed, failed not to answer that they 
did hear very well indeed, and their former pledges of 
reformation were once more uttered in a great clamor; 
tones of hope and pleasure at their relief from the cat- 
o'-nine-tails, now cadencing, however, their voices; and 
their priest, interpreting the result only in the way he had 
wished it to be, immediately rejoined — " Very well, very 
well, then I forgive you for the present; and Mister Demp- 
sey forgives you; and I hope God will forgive you; so now, 
come with me to the other end of the room ; come, my 
boys, come ; come up here among the rest — there is more 
joy in heaven," he continued, as he approached the more 
deserving claimants for winter clothing, speaking in a loud 
voice, that they might hear him, and as solemnly, and sin- 



46 FATHER CONNELL. 

cerely as if be addressed an adult congregation off his little 
altar ; " there is more joy in heaven for the repentance of 
one sinner, than for ninety-nine just." 

And now he distributed equally among the righteous and 
the unrighteous, as well as his judgment permitted, the pile 
of winter garments, "ma-as" and all. One of the very 
last, who shyly lingered to claim his bounty, was the boy 
whom we have mentioned, during the flourishing of the 
w cat-o'-nine tails," as standing upon the threshold of the 
school-room door — prepared to escape into the street, in 
case of emergency. And, in truth, this little fellow was, 
perhaps, the very least entitled to share in the holiday dona- 
tions, for, indeed, he had never before been in the priest's 
seminary at all ; and yet he seemed to want, perhaps, more 
than any of the half-naked petitioners around him, some 
protection against the bad weather. Father Connell had 
personally inspected the donning of his little gifts, and now 
did the same towards the boy before him. While the little 
stranger put on his new dress, tears were seen to fall plen- 
tifully from his eyes, and he suddenly glanced up into 
Father Connell's face. The old priest started, seized his 
arm, and led him close to a window. 

" What is your name, my child?" 

" Neddy Fennell, sir." 

"Neddy Fennell ! And are you the Neddy Fennell that 
used to fix my surplice on me in the sacristy, and hurt my 
foot by treading on it ?" 

"lam indeed, sir, the same Neddy Fennell." 

"Poor child ! how changed you are, then. God bless 
me ! and I was wondering what had become of yourself 
and your mother, and your poor aunt ! — after your poor 
father died, you know, I often went to see ve all, Neddy ; 
but then came my absence from the parish, on business, 
for a long while; and then the bad fever, that left me 
weakly, within the house, for a longer time still; and it was 
only the other day I could creep out to ask after you, when 
I missed you out of the choir; and then your mother's 
house was shut up, and no one could tell me where you 
had all gone — only that great poverty had overtaken ye ; 
and is this true, Neddy ? And are ye so very poor, 
Neddy?" 

" We are, indeed, very, very poor, sir," 



EITHER CONNELL. 47 

" Qot Mess me! poor child, poor child! and where doe 3 
your mctner live now, Neddy Fennel?" 

" In a cabin on the green, sir." 

" Well, Neddy, well ; you'll show me where your mother 
lives, and I will go see her with you ; wait for me until the 
boys go home by the bosheen, and go there you with them; 
but don't go home with them — don't go anywhere without 
me ; poor child, poor child — I must see your poor mother. 
Now, Mick," continued the priest, again whispering the 
schoolmaster confidentially, "the snow-storm is nearly 
over, and I will go into the bosheen, where no one can 
oversee or overhear us — and I will wait at the churchyard 
gate, till you come up to me with the boys." 

And in a few minutes the old gentleman occupied his 
post where he had mentioned it as situated — at the little 
gate of the churchyard of his chapel; and half secreted 
between its piers he now stood. "The Bosheen," — a soli- 
tary and unfrequented green lane, running to his right and 
to his left 

For a few minutes he waited here, smiling to himself, and 
clawing the palms of his hands with his fingers ; and anon, 
his ears were gratified by the expected sound of a great 
many little feet, softly tramping through the yet thin layer 
of snow, in the bosheen ; and in a few seconds more, ap- 
peared Mick Dempsey heading his army of newly-clad pu- 
pils, who coming on in great order, only two abreast, formed 
a goodly column. They slowly defiled before their priest 
and patron, each as he came up, squeezing hard, betwixt 
his finger and thumb, the narrow brim of his little felt hat, 
chucking it downwards, and the head it contained along 
with it; and then abruptly letting go, that both might bob 
back again to their usual position, and so altogether per- 
forming a bow to his Eeverence. And for every bow he 
got, every single one, Father Connell gave another bow, 
performed with studied suavity, though his face all the 
while glittered ; and when the troop had quite passed by, 
he stooped forward, leaning his hands on his knees, to peep 
after them ; and again standing upright, he clapped those 
hands softly together, and laughed, almost shouted forth 
his delight, while not tears alone, but little streamlets of 
tears, of happy, happy, tears trickled down his bloomy old 

cheeks. 

3 



48 FATHER CONNELL. 

It was some time before his outbreak of enjoyment per* 
mitted Father Connell's mind to recur to his engagement, 
with Neddy Fennell ; but now suddenly starting, he looked 
about him for his young friend; saw the boy standing 
timidly and alone, at a little distance, walked hastily to 
him, seized him by the hand, and under his guidance went 
to risit the widow of poor Atty Fennell 



+•» 



CHAPTER YL 

" The Green," so called by Neddy Fennell, had not a bit 
of green about it, being a space, enclosed at three sides, by 
wretched cabins, and at the fourth side by the high wall of 
the county hospital, within which that sedate edifice stood. 
The cabins were tenanted by the poorest of the poor. 
Their thatch half rotten, and falling in ; with holes in their 
clay walls for windows, and holes in their roofs for smoke 
vents ; and if ever the semblance of a chimney rose above 
one of them, it was contrived of a kind of osier-work, 
plastered with mud. Upon the area of the ground thus 
hemmed in, presided disorder, and want of cleanliness, in 
many inert varieties : heaps of manure before each door, 
and everywhere about, carefully collected by the inhabi- 
tants, as their most considerable source of wealth ; little 
pools of dirty water, and puddle in all weathers ; stones, 
great and small, wherever they could find room ; while 
through these pleasing resorts pigs grunted and wallowed, 
vicious cur does barked, and gambolled, or else snarled and 
quarrelled, and bit each other ; miserable half starved cocks 
and hens stalked here and there, in quest of something to 
pick up, and found nothing ; and half naked, and some- 
times wholly naked, children ran, shouting, and playing, 
and enjoying themselves. 

Fronting the hospital gate, but nearer to the opposite 
side of the irregular square, the gallows destined for the 
reception of city malefactors of the highest degree, used, 
occasionally — yet, we are bound to say, very seldom, 
recollecting the mass of squalid poverty around it — to be 



FATHER CONNELL. 49 

erected; and this was one feature of notoriety for the 
green, from which it improved on Neddy FenneH's appel- 
lation, and was once more emphatically termed Gallows 
Green. Bat there was also another trait of its celebrity, 
now to be indicated. 

It had, time immemorial, been a kind of city corporate 
commonage. Everything with and without life might take 
possession of it ; no questions asked ; and the liberal indul- 
gence was not long unacknowledged. When the hospital 
was being built, sand had been scooped irregularly, here 
and there, from beneath the surface of the green nearest to 
the edifices site, so that, after its completion, and the 
erection of its boundary wall, hollows remained. Upon the 
verge of one of those, or haply at its bottom, some specu- 
lating vagabond pauper experimentally ventured to erect a 
hovel, still more' wretched than the buildings enclosing 
three sides of the space around it How he procured the 
materials, even for such a dwelling, Heaven and he know — 
not we. No one interrupted his proceedings, and he lived 
for years rent-free and tax-free ; and in every way luxuri- 
antly free, in his new house. His success emboldened 
others like himself to imitate his example ; and in a few 
years, copies of his domicile, perhaps to the amount of one 
hundred or of one hundred and fifty, were to be seen on 
the edges, or on the sinking sides, or in the very depths of 
the old gravel-pits, and the population of the precious 
colony soon became very numerous. 

To get into this jumble of miserable dwellings was a 
puzzle ; to get out of it, once in, a still greater one ; for it 
contained no streets, no lanes, no alleys, no enclosed spots, 
no straight ways, no level ways ; but hqvel turned its back 
upon hovel, or its side, or its gable, or stood upon the 
verge of an excavation, or upon tne declivity, or at the bot- 
tom of one, as before hinted ; so that a stranger venturing 
into the settlements in quest of any one or anything, could 
not know where he was going, or where to go, unless con- 
ducted by the hand of an initiated resident ; as to escaping 
into the green again, without some such friendly agency, 
the thing was romantically out of the question, and if he 
were a tall broad-shouldered man, he must have squeezed 
his way through almost every random opening available for 
his progress. In truth, compared with the difficulties of 



50 FATHER CONNELL. 

this labyrinth the enigma of "The walls of Troy,* inscribed 
Dy urchins on their slates at school, was a mers nothing ; 
and in our Charitable Society, from which the week's 
president was sometimes deputed to pay the locality a 
visit, it became jocosely fabled that a shower of houses had 
fallen — no time specified — from the clouds, upon this 
inhabited portion of Gallow's Green, tumbling here and 
there, helter-skelter, and so remaining to the period we 
speak of. And "the shower of houses" became a distin- 
guishing title of the quartier. 

A word as to the probable nature of the characters in- 
habiting " the shower of houses." At the first glance we 
recognise them, as a set of unhappy creatures, all living in 
one way or another by chance. At the second, it is admit- 
ted that many among them were composed of individuals 
so modest as to retire occasionally from the notice of the 
mayor, magistrates, constables, and other nice critics of the 
adjacent city and suburbs ; for once within the sanctuary 
of the shower of houses, a person of seclusive habits might 
sequester himself for any given time ; the approach of an 
uninvited visitor spreading from house to house with 
telegraphic despatch, and the object of such a visit being 
helped at every hand, to He secret or to escape ; while it 
would have taken a cordon mUitaire, shoulder to shoulder, 
round about the colony, to prevent the egress of any one 
in it ; as to catching amid its subtleties that " any one," 
you might as well — to use the boastful language of the 
natives themselves, you might as well " look for a needle in 
a bundle of straw." 

It will of course be borne in mind, that we have sketch- 
ed a place in existence about thirty-five years ago. "The 
Green," is at present very much improved. Some years 
since, its civic proprietors established a right of doing what 
they liked with its little Alsatia ; from which circumstance 
resulted the fact, that the shower of houses vanished from 
the face of the earth ; and — but we cannot indeed loiter to 
point out any of the other changes for the better, now 
visible upon Gallows Green. 

Neddy Fennell stopped his patron before the habitation 
they had come to seek — one of a piece with all those around 
it. As Father Connell stood at its threshold, his hat 
touched the eve of its roof of rotten thatch. Its clay-built 



FATHER CONNELL. 51 

walls were mouldering ; its foundations crumbling away ; 
there was not a good promise held forth by its whole ap- 
pearance that it could adhere together for half an hour. 
To one side of its clumsy patched door was a badly shaped 
oval hole, the only vent through which, excepting the open 
doorway, the smoke from within could in mild weather get. 
out, or the light, and the miasmatic vapor floating abroad, 
and called fresh air, get in, But in the piercing cold and 
pelting storms of the season at present, this hole was 
stopped with a mysterious bundle of old rags and straw, 
and the curiously contrived old door also shut. 
' The initiated Neddy Fennell raised its latch by tugging 
at a knotted string. Father Connell entered the dwelling, 
bending almost double in order to do so. He stood in the 
middle of a puddled earthen floor, upon which the thawing 
snow from above, oozing through the decayed or partially 
open thatch, dripped and splashed ; not, however, without 
becoming tinted in its descent by the depositions of soot 
formed, time out of mind, upon the therefore blackened 
sticks that very infirmly supported the roof of the edifice, 
staining everything it fell upon into a dingy brown, and 
hence termed "soot-rain." The walls around him were 
bare clay, as bare as their outsides, excepting tho fact of 
their being japanned with smoke. 

The length of the hut, from end to end, might be about 
twelve feet. Quite along this extent ran a mud partition, 
not, however, reaching to the roo£ and enclosing an inner 
apartment some two short paces in breadth, a doorless 
blank orifice in the dividing screen affording entrance into 
it. Against the gable, to our priest's right as he entered, 
a very little grate was contrived, ingeniously fixed in yellow 
clay hobs, and fashioned out of pieces of old iron hoops, 
obtained we cannot venture to affirm how or where ; and 
in this grate burned, or rather brightly glowed a brisk fire 
— glowed we say, because the little balls of mixed clay and 
ashes composing its materials emitted no flame, but went 
on igniting like a kiln ; not failing, however, to spread 
through the shut-up apartment — unsupplied of course with 
a chimney, a sulphurous, and otherwise choking vapor, 
which made any strange visitor cough and sneeze, much 
against his will. 

Before the ardent little fire, and almost touching it, 



52 FATHER CONNELL. 

squatted a middle-aged woman, dressed in rags and tatters • 
cooking npon a "griddle" (a round flat piece of iron), a 
cake which occupied the full space of her apparatus ; and 
curious to relate, she was so happy in her den of seeming 
wretchedness, that she endeavored to shape her cracked 
voice into what was intended for a merry song. 

Catching the sound made by the old squeaking door as 
Father Connell came in, the woman stopped short in her 
melody, though not in her cooking process ; and without 
turning or looking behind her, jocularly shouted out — 

"Ah, then, the divil welcome you, honey, and is that 
yourself?" 

A step or two brought Father Connell close upon her. 
These steps did not sound like those she had expected to 
hear. She glanced sideways at the feet and legs which now 
almost came in contact with her own. The friend she had 
counted on, and for whom her salutation was intended, 
certainly did not wear black knee-breeches, and large sil- 
ver buckles in his shoes. She looked quite up, and recog- 
nised the formidable hat and wig of her parish priest ; and 
then, with surprising agility, up she bounced from her 
squatting position, retreated as far as the dimensions of 
her dwelling would permit, and there clasping hor hands, 
gazed in terror at the old clergyman. 

"I fear the word that is on your lips is in your heart," 
he said sternly, "sinful woman." 

" Och, then, may the word choke me if — " 

" Stop ! — or I fear you may get your prayer ; I fear you 
will die with that very word in your mouth." 

"I won't — I won't, your Bivirince! — 111 die a good 
Christian." 

"Well, well — God mend you — God mend you," and 
Father Connell passed into the inner chamber of her 
house. 

Here, not able to see distinctly any object, he called at 
the orifice, through which he had squeezed himself, for a 
light ; the woman without came with some burning straw 
in her hand, which only flared for an instant, and then left 
him in redoubled darkness. He asked for a candle, and 
unable to procure such a luxury herself, the dame tucked 
up her tatters and left the wigwam to hunt, as she said, 
<; among the good neighbors for a scrap of one ;" during 



FATHER CONNELU 68 

which hunt she did not fail to telegraph through the 
shower of houses, that their most dreaded enemy, their / 
parish priest, was among them. 

She came back, however, with something like the article 
for which she had issued forth ; by the aid of which her 
visitor now discerned two female figures stretched upon 
loose and damp straw, shaken into two separate beds, as it 
were, over the puddled earthen floor ; while their bodies 
were covered with some indefinable patchwork of shreds 
and rags, and while the roof over them now and then sent 
down heavy drops ; and one of these women was the 
Widow Fennell, and the other her aunt Mary. The old 
priest's blood ran cold ; his heart wept within him; but he 
tried to keep down his feelings. Obtaining an old three- 
legged stool from the next apartment, he sat down on it at 
the head of the miserable couch, now occupied by the once 
idolized pet of a comfortable home ; took her little bony 
hand, and listened to her sad tale of explanation. 

" After her husband's death," she said, " everything went 
wrong with her ; she was no good," continued her little, 
feeble, murmuring voice ; " she could only mope, cry, and 
fret all the live-long day ; and the wicked journeyman that 
Arthur Fennell left behind him, in his shop — God forgive 
her if she wronged him! — turned out to be a very bad 
man, making his own of the profits of her trade, and giving 
her no accounts ; and debts for stock laid in were asked 
for, and there was nothing to pay them ; and workmens' 
wages too were asked for, every week ; and as long as she 
could she tried to satisfy these demands, bit by bit, out of 
a little store of money which Arthur had saved ; and at 
last, when she had not another penny to give, real poverty 
came upon her and her aunt ; the interest of her house, 
her furniture, all was sold and swept away ; and her aunt 
and she sank lower and lower, changing from one poor 
lodging to another, until, at last, they were obliged to seek 
refuge in the place where Father Gonnell now found them. 
" We have very little to live on this time back, sir — very 
little indeed ; nothing but what we are allowed weekly by 
the good members of the Charitable Society, as the widows 
of tradesmen — as much as they can give, sir, but still very 
little between my aunt, and the little boy, and myself; and 
out of it we must pay two shillings a week, for tie corners 



54 FATHER CONNELL. 

we are lying in, and the rest barely keeps the life in us ; 
and — whisper, sir — the old woman and I, poor as our food 
is, stint ourselves that we may give Neddy something like 
enough to ate. And oh! Father Connell, this kind of bed 
I He on is worse to me than it would be to people always 
accustomed to such poverty, and to my poor Aunt Mary 
too : indeed and indeed, sir, the could of the flure numbs 
me, and I feel very, very chilly and miserable, day and 
night — shivering all over, and never warm as I used to be 
formerly ; and then the ould covering over our bodies is 
very thin; and the rain often drips down on us, so that my 
very bones get sore, and I have no rest ; and whichever 
way I turn, is all the same, sir." 

Here the Widow Fennell moved herself on her straw. 
Part of her squalid coverlid fell off her shoulders ; and 
Father Connell saw that her body was quite naked. He 
started up from the three-legged stool, paced to the second 
couch occupied by her aunt, and ascertained that the aged 
woman was in the same condition. Acting upon an im- 
pulse, but one which before now he had often fully obeyed, 
when the sex of the poor object permitted, Father Connell 
walked quickly to a remote nook of the comparatively long 
slip of dungeon, and was preparing, without observation as 
he thought, to disrobe himself of his very inner garment, 
when, glancing behind him, he was suddenly put in mind 
that he must not, at present, follow up his purpose. He 
next thrust his hands into all his large pockets, and finding 
nothing in them, strode up and down, moaning dismally. 
And, at length, forming a resolution, he alertly issued into 
the outer apartmeht—-not, however, without taking the 
poor young widow's hand again, squeezing it hard, and 
whispering to her—" I'm going from you, my child, but I 
wont be long away ; rest you here as quietly as you can 
till I come back." 

" Where are you, Neddy ?" he called out ; the boy ran to 
him from one of the hobs of the densely glowing little fire; 
" give me your hand, Neddy, and lead me out of this sinful 
place, as you led me into it ; and, after that, come home 
with me ; * yes, Neddy, my poor little boy, come home with 
me ; but we will come back soon again to your mother 
— we will indeed, Neddy — indeed we wilL" 



FATHER CONNELL. 56 



CHAPTEE VTL 

lw quitting the abode, holding fast by Neddy FennelTa 
hand, Father Connell had no eyes for anything around 
him. He did not therefore perceive, that the woman he 
had first seen cooking her griddle-cake, was now sitting on 
her heels at the fire, along with another woman, habited 
very like herself ; the friendly visitor, in fact, for whom she 
had mistaken Father ConneU on his coming in ; and who, 
during his conference with Mrs. Fennell, had really 
returned to her co-partner in a certain traffic, her body 
bent under a little sack, secured thereon by a hay-rope 
passing across her forehead. 

Upon the meeting of the two friends, a subdued " whist !" 
—and nodding and winking towards the inner room, on 
the part of the cook, and then, whispering explanations at 
the fire, enabled them to sit quietly until the priest passed 
out — not, however, without disagreeable apprehensions of 
what might be his notice of them before he left their house. 
But he did leave it, paying no attention to them ; and then, 
after a cautious pause to give him time to get far enough 
away, they ventured to indulge a few sneers and jests at 
his expense ; turning by-and-by to other topics. 

The two persons before us, were what is locally called 
" potato-beggars ;" it should be added, potato-sellers too, 
as they certainly vended to good advantage the food re- 
ceived as alms. Amongst the farmer's wives, whom, in 
pursuit of their calling, they very often visited, one of them 
was in the habit of admitting that she "toent by the name" 
of Nelly Oarty, and the other by that of Bridget Mulrooney ; 
and both used to tell pathetic stories of their large families 
of orphans, and how they were left alone in the wide world, 
without a " mankind to do a hand's turn for them on the 
Sure," or to earn as much as a cold potato for themselves 
and their starving children. Copartners in trade, it has 
been said they were ; joint owners of their crumbling hut 
they also were, and every article of its furniture had two 
mistresses ; and in all the hardships of business, as well as 
in all its profits, they had share and share alike. 

Perhaps the majority of the colonists of the shower of 



56 FATHER CONNELL. 

houses, living upon chance as we have intimated, were 
made up of potato-beggars; as well, indeed, as were a 
good portion of the occupiers of all the miserable suburbs 
at that time surrounding our city; yet, none of them 
seemed dissatisfied with their social position; and, in 
fact, compared with the less brazen-faced paupers around 
them, who were ashamed to beg, little reason had these 
sturdy vagabonds to be so. If famine did not reign over 
the land, in consequence of the destruction, by an unfa- 
vorable season of the potato-root, " there was little fear o' 
them," as they said themselves ; and a passing notice of the 
manner in which Nelly Carty, and Bridget Mulrooney 
drove their thriving trade, may prove the assertion, as 
regards the whole of their numerous and respectable 
body. 

At break of day in winter, and at six o'clock during every 
other portion of the year, out sallied either one or the 
other of them ; her well-patched bag of indefinite material 
chucked under her arm, leaving her helpmate at home, to 
take care of the house, and perform other necessary duties 
of the firm. And suppose Nelly Carty went out, Bridget 
Mulrooney had, compared with Nelly's responsibilities, a 
day of exquisite rest ; and hence, by the way, arose the 
necessity of the extensive association of potato-beggars 
following their vocation, in couples at least, if not in trios, 
or quartettos. So, Nelly went out, and after clearing the 
town and its environs, traversed a pretty wide district, in 
mud and in mire, in sunshine and in all its contraries, hail, 
rain, snow, frost, fog, wind, and tempests, and so forth ; 
along high-roads and by-roads, along bosheens and field- 
paths ; over hedge and ditch, over hiU and valley, until at 
last she succeeded in amassing in her sack a creditable 
load, amounting to about one hundred weight, gained by 
most plausible beggary from all the well-known farm- 
houses in her chosen haunt; and also very often from 
the cabins of the working peasants encountered on her 
way. 

But Nelly was not such a fool as to carry her bag from 
door to door with any appearance of plenty in it So soon 
as it began to assume a plethoric shape, she knew well 
some convenient spot in the open fields m which to deposit 
its contents ; after which, she could bear it quite empty 



FATHER CONNELL. 57 

and open-mouthed, and beseechingly to the thresholds 
next to be visited ; and before evening fell, after receiving 
the " bit and sup," along with her usual donation of raw 
potatoes, at more than one of the truly charitable dwellings 
among which she quested, Nelly recurred, with the cer- 
tainty of a raven, to the hiding-hole glanced at ; secured 
the mouth of her now well distended wallet ; passed a rope 
of hemp, or of hay over its middle, when she had poised it 
between her shoulders ; repassed the rope across her fore- 
head ; then gained, by the shortest cut, a place of rendez- 
vous on the high road, where she met perhaps a dozen of 
her sisterhood, though by no means in partnership with 
her, who there had sat down to rest a little while, after the 
happy termination of their day's ingenuity; rested, and 
smoked, and gossiped, merrily and loudly along with them; 
in their company walked home, bent double, though on 
sturdy bare red legs and feet ; gained the rent-free and 
tax-free dwelling of which she and Bridget Mulrooney 
were joint-proprietors ; entered it, and found Bridget pre- 
pared to afford her in every way a luxurious welcoming, 
after her tramp of at least fifteen long Irish miles ; relieved 
herself, with her helpmate's joyous aid, of her formidable 
fardel, and sat down at the brisk little fire to become very 
happy. And the next morning Bridget Mulrooney went 
out with the bag, of course, and Nelly staid at home to 
enjoy her day of repose ; and so, day after day the year 
round, the business of their concern was regularly carried 
on. 

The shower of houses has passed away; not a trace 
even of the foundations — if ever they had any — of its 
hundred-and-fifty wigwams can be seen ; but potato-beg- 
ging has thereby suffered nought, either in popular esti- 
mation or in the numbers of its professors. To this very 
hour, towards the close of the day, detachments of the 
amiable sisterhood, homeward bound, and generally pro- 
ceeding in single file, while they all gabble and laugh, and 
gibe, and shout to each other, from front to rear, may be 
encountered upon every high-road diverging from their 
native town. There is one of those roads, by the way, 
along which the good ladies do not trudge in very high 
spirits, but rather with clouded brows, scowling eyes, and 
muttering voices, and that one is the road to the left-hand 



58 FATHER CONNELL. 

side, of which, just as it is about to join Gallows Green, a 
certain building now begins, with every promise of being 
soon finished, to erect its austere looking front — the dis- 
trict poorhouse, in fact. 

But Bridget and Nelly are still before us, at their fire, 
provokingly inviting us to turn from a general notice of 
them to something more individual and domestic ; and it 
was Bridget Mulrooney who had been out that day with 
the bag. 

When they became quite assured that the priest was be- 
yond hearing or observation, Nelly recurred to her gridle- 
cake, which, during his retreat into the inner apartment, 
she had not forgotten to take care of, and now found it 
done " to a turn," and to her heart's full satisfaction, as it 
exhibited on both sides the proper speckled surface of 
brown and white, which demonstrated her culinary suc- 
cess. She removed it from the griddle, cut it up into 
measured portions, and placed these on edge round the 
hob, to keep them still comfortably hot. She then put a 
short form in front of the smirking fire; and using a 
ricketty old chair as a sideboard, deposited upon it her 
odd cups and saucers, as she called them — and indeed 
"odd" they were in every sense of the word, of different 
sizes, patterns, and colors ; by their sides, or among them, 
one leaden teaspoon, a little jug with a broken nose, three 
white delft plates with blue edges, a wooden " noggin," a 
little black tin tea-pot, and a wooden-hafted knife. This 
done, she drew out of one of her capacious pockets a flat 
bottle containing whiskey, which, when used as on the pres- 
ent occasion, is jocularly termed " colliery crame ;" again 
from the same ample receptacle a small folded paper, hold- 
ing one-quarter of an ounce of tea, and after it a second 
Earcel somewhat larger, enveloping two ounces of intensely 
rown sugar. During her proceedings so far, a small 
three-legged metal pot had been boiling away gloriously, 
after the removal of the cake and the griddle, on the fire ; 
with the aid of the wooden noggin she now abstracted 
from this pot, water to make her tea in the little dingy tea- 
pot ; and, still continuing her allotted household duties, split 
the different portions of her cake with the wooden-hafted 
knife, and then heaped butter upon the insides of each por- 
tion, until the dainty was saturated through and through. 



FATHER CONNELL. 59 

Pending these preparations, Bridget Mulrooney, squat- 
ted on the floor, at one end of the short form, looked on at 
Nelly's process, with very pleasing anticipations, and ask- 
ing a careless question now and men, and uninterruptedly 
extending the palms of her red hands and the soles of her 
red feet so closely to the Are as, by nice and habitual 
calculation, barely to avoid the uncomfortable result of 
haying them blistered, enjoyed, it may be boldly affirmed, 
a position and situation of great bliss. Her day of labor 
was over ; she was deliciously resting herself ; she had not 
to stir in the performance of any household duty ; abun- 
dant and cheering refreshment was close at hand ; and she 
was not to go on the tramp for one whole day again — what 
earthly lot could surpass hers ? Ask a queen ! 

Everything being in readiness, Nelly Carty also squatted 
herself at the end of the form opposite to which Bridget 
Mulrooney sat. The pair rubbed their hands in gleeish 
anticipation; and the pig, nestled in his corner, thrust 
out his snout from his straw, regardless of his mistresses, 
and good-humoredly grunted his satisfaction at seeing 
them so comfortable, and so near the point of perfect 
enjoyment 

Our hostess of the evening poured out the scalding hot 
tea, sweetening it well with the thoroughly brown sugar, 
and more than once sipping with the little leaden spoon 
from both the cups before her, to ascertain, as in duty and 
etiquette bound, the quality of the beverage, according to 
the judgment of her own palate. She next infused into 
each cup no stingy portion of the " colliery crame," which, 
as it gurgled through the neck and mouth of the flat bottle, 
so tickled the ears of both ladies as to produce a pleasant 
chuckle. And again the smiling Hebe of the feast stirred 
the compound mixture with her little leaden spoon, again 
took a sip out of each cup, wagged her head in approval 
of the final fitness of the beverage ; and handing over one 
measure of it to her helpmate Bridget, cried out in a tone 
of utter joviality : — 

"Here, my old duchess, will that lie in your way, we 
wondher?" 

"That's nate tay, sure enough, Nelly," after swallowing 
a mouthful so hot and so pungent, that it obliged her to 
oLose her eyes during its descent through her throat: 



60 PATHBB CONNELL. 

" but I think yourself is as much of an onld duchess as I 
am, Nelly." 

"Faith we're a pair of ould duchesses, Bridget, and 
much good may it do us, I say." 

" There's them is worse off, Nelly, wid our good tay and 
our butthered cake." 

" Well, well, Bridget, alanah machree, if you were lookin' 
at me to-day evenin' when the ould priest came in ! By 
this same blessed tay, I thought the ground would open and 
swally me. Sure I thought that 'twas your four bones that 
lifted the latch ; and so what does I do, but sings out, 
' divil welcome you, honey,' to the face iv his big wig." 

" Oh-a ! oh-a ! and what did he say to you, Nelly ?" 

" He has no good will to me of ould — and he tould me 
I'd die with that word in my mouth — but I won't — 111 die 
a good Christian yet, Bridget, as I tould him." 

" And we'll all do that, Nelly, and why not ?" 

" If there's anything comes across you, Bridget, the grass 
won't grow under my feet till I hunt out the priest for you, 
and bring him to the bedside to you — and by coorse you'll 
do the like for me, Bridget ?" 

"By coorse, Nelly, by coorse; but tell me what's the 
rason that Father Oonnell would have an ould grudge 
against you, Nelly ?" 

"Faix, and that you'll know afore long, my jewel, if 
Nelly Carty's tongue doesn't get the palsy in it 

"Och, there's little dread ov that, Nelly." 

" Divil a fear, my ould duchess, but wait a bit* ov you 
plase. Go skurra dhuch naa tkool goes one way, but I say, 
no story widout the supper." 

A second cup of tea, precisely manufactured as its pre* 
decessor had been, was served out, and Nelly continued: — 

" I b'lieve it's ten years agone sense you an' I kem to- 
gether, Bridget. I lived on the Lake at that time, an' 
Father Oonnell has a mortil hatred to the Lake; and I was 
livin' under the wan roof with Tim Donoher — you know 
Tim Donoher, Bridget ?" 

" No, I never stopped on the Lake, Nelly, tnd so I hadn't 
a knowledge ov him/' 

" He goes by the name of Woodbine." 

" Woodbine, enagh ! And what do they call him by that 
name for, Nery?" 



FATHER CONNELL. 61 

"He has wan good leg, Bridget, but the other isn't the 
fellow iv it; and he carries a critch at the side where the 
odd leg hangs; and if you war to see that leg ! — it twists 
round the critch wan or two times, afther the manner iv 
the woodbine that grows in the hedges, and for the same 
raison they calls him Woodbine." 

" He, he, he ! divil a betther." 

" Well, my ould hare, I lived under the one roof wid 
Woodbine at the time I'm goin' to tell about; and Tim and 
the whole of us liked a bit of mate well enough; so myself 
was out in the direction of Ballysalla, and there was as fine 
a dhrake as ever you could lay your two eyes on, and as 
nice a duck along with the dhrake becoorse, and the both 
were paddlin' on afore me; and shure it came into my head 
that tney were tired, the cratures ; they waddled over and 
hether at sich a rate; but sense that time I was often think- 
in' it was the fat that made them hobble in their gate o' 
goin' — what do you think, Bridget?" 

" Och I and it was the fat, sure enough — he I he 1 he !" 

" Fail, and maybe you're in the right Well, howsom- 
dever, havin' the notion that they were tired, sure I said to 
myself I'd carry 'em a start, and enough to do I had to 
ketch 'em." 

"Well, well; but sure that might put id in your head 
that they weren't tired, Nelly?" 

" It never crossed my mind at that time, and more be- 
token there's no dependin' on a duck or dhrake. I often 
seen 'em undher a horse's foot, an' you'd think the hoof 
was down on their backs ; and afther all, they'd twist out 
o' the way, like a cute ould eel, and there wouldn't be a 
feather touched. 

" Well, afther a rale chase, shure I had my duck and my 
dhrake safe enough, and I puts one undher one arm, and 
another undher the other arm, an' draws the cloak over 
'em, and I was goin' my way when the Widow Delouchry 
comes up to me, and she puts questions to me about the 
same duck and dhrake. Myself, said I, seen 'em crossin' 
the stubble-field a little while agone, but then up comes the 
Widow Delouchrv's son to her help, and afther him her 
daughter — and they were all lookin' across the stubbles, 
when, my iewil, the threacherous duck cries out, ' Walk, 
walk, walk, undher one arm, and her dhrake makes answer 



62 FATHER CONXELL. 

to her undher my ofclier arm ; and ochone, lanna machree* 
they tore open my mantle, widout sayin' by your leave, 01 
how do yon like it, and out they pulls misther drake and 
misthress duck foment the world ; and I gets a slap on 
one cheek wid the dhrake, and a slap on th' other cheek 
wid the duck, and they falls pullin' me to babby-rags ; but 
afore they had me tore asundher entirely, up gallops Father 
Connell on horseback, and he - thried to make pace ; and 
then, shure they tould him the whole story, and iv a sar- 
tainty he looked very black at me, and shuck his wig fright- 
ful to see, and yet for all that, the ould creathure of a priest 
wouldn't let 'em touch me any more, but tould me to make 
the best o' my way into the town ; and he overtuk me on 
the road, and he gave me the best of advice, and he made 
inquiries about my way of livin' and everything ; and shure 
I tould the poor man how the husband was dead, and how 
the childher war very badly off entirely ; and I didn't say I 
stopped in the house wid Woodbine at all, only I gave him 
the name of another place — and what would you have of 
it, Bridget ? when he came to help myself and the childher, 
he didn't find me where I said I had my lodgin'." 
' c Ho ! ho ! faix, and that was conthrary enough." 
" Och, mostha, and the worst is to be tould yet, Bridget 
Mulrooney. Woodbine, as I made known to you, liked a 
bit 'o mate, and he was hard run for the same one time ; 
and Father Connell had two goats to give him crame for 
his.tay, the poor genthleman, and Woodbine comes across 
the goats ; and as shure as you're planked there afore the 
lire, he brings the goats home wid him — so that becoorse 
we didn't want for roast and biled while they lasted. But, 
murdher an* ages ! just as we were on the last of 'em, and 
it was purty late in the night when we were sittm' at the 
faste, the latch o' the door was riz up, my jewel, and in 
walks Father Connell his own self ! and shure the goatskins 
was hangin' agin the walls, and they sould the pass on us. 
Oh! oh! oh! you wouldn't give threepence for our souls 
and bodies when we saw him standnV on the flure — we 
thought he'd ate us alive. But what do you think? the 
poor foolish man spoke to us paceable enough, considhering 
we was affcher devourin* his purty goats ; and before goin' 
away, he tould us the worst thing he'd wish us was that 
they might be cry in' ' mag-a-maa ' in our stomachs; and 



PATH SB CONNELL. 6* 

Dow it's a down-right truth I'm going to tell yon, Bridget, 
Woodbine and myself, and two more, used to hear the 
'mag-a-maa' inside iv us every night for a long while 
afther. 

" Well, Bridget, asthore, if Woodbine and the rest of 'em 
was in throuble from the priest, sure it's myself was in the 
rale, downright scrape. I thought to hide my head, 
rememberin' about the dhrake and the duck ; but he knew 
me at the first peep, my honey — and though you'd think 
from the way he goes, that he wouldn't be able to take 
notice of you at all, his ould blue eye darts through you as 
a needle for all thai" 

" That's the truth, Nelly : we all know he has the sharp 
eye in his head." 

" And yet, Bridget, if he seen the man that I seen to-day 
— though he has good rason to know that man well — keen 
as his eyes are, he could never call to mind who he was 
looking at." 

" Arrah, d'ye say so I and who was that man, Nelly ? " 

"111 till you then, Bridget, and you'll say it's a story 
worth harkenin' to. It's beyond thirty years ago, sence 
what I'm goin' to reharse for you happened. There was a 
clone young boy, at that time, livin' not far from this very 
place, and he went by the name of Robin Oostigan ; and 1 
was a very young girl then, and I'll say no more about 
Robin and myself at present ; — only somehow it happened 
that Robin borrowed the loan of a horse, without axin' 
lave, and he was cotch on the back of that horse at a fair, 
in the Queen's County ; and — but murther 1 What's that 
at the door o' the house ? " 

Neither of the dames had heard Father Oonnell impart 
to Nfddy Fennell his intention of soon coming back that 
very evening to their domicile. After his departure with 
> the boy, they had sat down, without fear of interruption, 
(for the night, to enjoy their "tay," and had therefore 
secured, on the inside, their crazy door as well as they 
could. Hence, upon now hearing a loud thumping ana 
kicking at it, considerable was theii surprise, if not alarm. 
Up they bounced together, and together bawled out, 
through the chinks in their dx>r, a questioning challenge 
to the unexpected visiters. 

"Let me in, ye unfortunate creatures," answered the 



64 FATHER CONNELL. 

tones of Father ConnelTs well-known voice, not angrily 
however. 

Suppressing their screams, shouts indeed, if they had let 
them escape, one of the ladies hastened to hide away, as 
quickly as possible, all evidences of merry-making ; while 
tiie second, with frank and hearty avowals of answering the 
priest's request, seemingly fumbled with great zeal to try 
and open the door ; and when at last she did pull it open, 
great was her astonishment to see Father Connell and little 
Neddy pass in, each heavily laden with different kinds of 
burdens. 

But, before continuing any longer this history, under the 
roof of Nelly Carty and Bridget Mulrooney, we suddenly 
perceive a necessity for premising why our parish priest 
took Neddy FenneU with him, upon a promise of soon re- 
turning to the lad's mother, and where they went together, 
and how they now reappeared burthened as has been 
noticed 



CHAPTER 7UI. 



Still piloted by his friend Neddy, Father Connell had 
treaded his way through the shower of houses. He and 
his faithful guide cleared them, and the old man walking at 
so brisk a pace as almost to make the boy trot in order to 
keep up with him, the confidential pair halted before the 
outer door leading into the yard of the clergyman's resi- 
dence. It was partially open, and Father Connell thought 
he should know the meaning of that circumstance ; he said 
nothing, however, but crossing the yard to a little stable 
just opposite to him, unhasped its door as quietly as possi- 
ble, and stealing in with his companion, who, no ways dull 
for his age, watched the priest's proceedings with much 
wonder, and perhaps some humor, took Neddy by the 
shoulders, placed him out of sight from any one passing by 
mounted with great agility a ladder in one corner, gaining 
by its agency a hay and straw loft, and after a moment's 



FATHER CONNELL. 65 

delay handed down to his juvenile helper some four or five 
small bundles of fresh straw. 

" And now don't stir out of that, for your life," he whis- 
pered, shaking his clenched hand at Neddy. " No, not a 
foot until I come back to you again, Neddy." 

" Never fear, sir," answered the boy in a like cautious 
whisper, while he, in turn, shook his little fist in good 
mimicry, " I'm not the lad to budge on you, sir ;" and his 
priest patted his head, and seemed very well pleased at 
having so excellent a colleague in his contemplated en- 
terprise. 

Then he hasped the stable-door upon Neddy ; took out 
his latch-key and opened the door of his house ; stood 
upon its threshold, and peered before him and to each 
side, with increased vigilance. There was no one as yet 
visible. He advanced a step or two, paused, again peered 
in every direction, and listened ; — all was still, right, and 
safe. He trod on tiptoe into Mrs. MoUoy's kitchen ; it 
was seemingly quite untenanted. He took a candle off 
her kitchen table and dared to invade her bed-chamber. 
He stealthily stripped the blankets from her bed, and was 
also about to steal a heavy patchwork quilt, but con- 
scientiously hesitated- for a moment ; and deciding, after 
much deliberation, that the greater portion of it might 
have resulted from her own industry and contrivance, and 
not from his pocket, finally resisted the sore temptation. 
Yet, after that, he approached Mrs. Molloy's wardrobe — an 
old trunk in which she kept all her more useful portions 
of dress — abstracted from its contents after much, and in- 
deed not unpuzzled scrutiny, two nicely folded linen robes, 
of a certain description, rolled them up in her blankets, 
stealthily passed out again — his bundle under his arm— 
from her bed-room and through her kitchen, and as 
stealthily ascended a little, narrow, and very short stair- 
case to his own sleeping apartment. 

Here, the first theft he had to commit was easily got 
through; the blankets of his own bed were soon coiled 
over the pack he had already accumulated. But he also 
wanted a few shillings, and now some delay occurred. He 
placed Mrs. Molloy's candle on a chair, sat down on an- 
other, and gazed wistfully and debatingly at an old- 
fashioned piece of oaken furniture, partly writing-desk 



66 FATHER C0XX2LL. 

and book-case, and partly chest of drawers. In one of its 
recesses was a little linen bag with a running-string, con- 
taining money begged exclusively for the support of his 
parish poor school ; durst he fairly and honestly inako use, 
for a time, of any portion of the contents of that little bag 
for any other purpose? He reasoned this case with his 
heart as well as with his mind ; at last resolved that the 
call at hand was so urgent and peculiar that he indeed 
might do so — firmly promising to himself to replace with 
interest what he should now only borrow from the small 
hoard; and then he courageously appropriated the few 
shillings he had wanted and returned to the stable, there 
helping his youthful accomplice in this burglary on his 
own house to mount the straw on his shoulders, while he 
himself arranged to carry under one of his proper arms 
the goodly bundle plundered within doors. 

In all his proceedings the good man was quite serious 
and earnest; while Master Neddy Fennell saw so much 
drollery in the whole affair that, in assisting with all possi- 
ble gravity, as he was desired to do, in every necessary 
proceeding, a looker-on might have detected in his eye 
and manner signs of a waggish enjoyment, which, however, 
fully escaped Father Connell's notice. 

But Father Connell had not been as successful as he 
imagined in avoiding observation. To be sure, as he had 
sagely surmised, upon finding the door of his yard open, 
Mra Molloy was not at home — the lady having " slipped 
out" for a little gossip with some of the neighbors. But 
she had left "the boy" boy behind in care of the premises, 
strictly charging him not to stir till her return, and then 
carefully latching the door of the house upon him, and 
purposely leaving the outer door ajar, that she might steal 
in at her pleasure, and ascertain if her sentinel was duly 
on his post 

As the evening was bitterly cold, Tom Naddy, the 
" priest's boy," resolved to establish himself, while keeping 
watch and ward, in the most comfortable position possible, 
within the house — which, as every one knows, or ought to 
know, must have been upon one of the huge hobs within 
the capacious kitchen chimney. Yet he paused for an 
instant, refinedly canvassing the question as to which hob 
he ought to prefer to the other. That on which the cat 



FATHER C0NNELL. 67 

reposed lie finally resolved upon preferring, and so dis- 
placed madam puss, and sat down exactly where she had 
been, his knees up to a level with his chin ; and as some 
recompense to her for his unceremonious usurpation of 
her throne, he then fixed puss across his thighs, speak- 
ing fondly to her, and stroking her down, upon which his 
kitchen companion winked up at him with both her eyes, 
and began to purr gratefully. Thus established, the east 
wind might whistle, and the snow-flake might dance to 
the tune, but neither Tom Naddy nor the cat chattered 
their teeth in unison with it 

Tom Naddy began to dose. The sound of a latch-key 
turning in the door of the house, fully restored him to Ins 
powers of observation. It was either Father Connell or 
Mrs. Molloy who was about to enter. If Mrs. Molloy, he 
did not care very much; if his master, he did fear a 
remonstrance against sloth and idleness, accompanied per- 
haps by some hard pulling at his ears ; so without abso- 
lutely disturbing himself, he prudently bent his faculties 
of hearing, to interpret to his own mind the sound of the 
footstep which must follow the other sound he had just 
heard. Be it remarked, that Mrs. Molloy had, as well as 
Father Connell, a latch-key to the house-door. 

In one instant he became convinced that it was the priest 
who had come in ; upon which discovery Tom Naddy had 
no resource but to cringe himself up along with his cat, into 
the corner of the hob he occupied, that fortunately being 
the one thrown into deep shadow by the side of the chim- 
ney opposed to the small taper on Mrs. Molloy's kitchen- 
table.* The piiest crept on tiptoe into Tom's presence, and 
for the reasons given, as well indeed as because his mind's 
eye had prepared itself for discerning solely the figure of 
his housekeeper, his " boy" remained quite unnoticed by 
him. But that boy did not, therefore, continue ignorant 
of Father ConnelTs larceny in Mrs. Molloy's bedroom. 

Before going farther, thero is a slight reason why you 
should be loosely sketched, Tom Naddy. You were, at 
this time, about sixteen or seventeen, though no one could 
venture to say as much by looking at you. You were very 
significantly described, by your homely neighbors, as a 
u hard-grown brat ;" short for your years, and not making 
up in bulk what you wanted in height. You had a jccdaw- 



68 FATHER /CONNELU ' 

colored eye, of which it was not eas^ to define the expres- 
sion. It did not, we hope* mean dishonesty ; for according 
to Lavater's rule, yon looted straight into one's face ; yet 
there was something in your glance, which made the philo- 
sophical observer curious to find out what .thai something 
was. Again, according to like sage mentioned, your nose 
had no hypocritical droop in it, but was on toe contrary — 
a goodly broad snub ; and a further and a greater puzzle 
about you was, that nobody could ever say, whether it was 
a smile or a grin, which always played around your flesh- 
less lips. And moreover, Tom Naddy, there appeared no 
boyishness about you. To be sure you had a certain easy 
slowness in your whole manner ; not laziness, as your poor 
master would have called it, but a peculiar self-possession, 
often broken up by an unexpected briskness; and you 
were not a person of many words, although you whistled a 
great deal — not, however, it is conjectured, for want of 
thought ; because your queer face never looked vacant ; 
and even while seemingly given up, mind and soul, to pro- 
duce the full pathos of " Molly Asthore," there used to be 
occasionally an abstract meaning in your eye, foreign from 
your harmony, and you would wink, or grin, or smile, or 
wag your white-haired head, in the very middle of the 
tune. 

So, no sooner had Father Connell ascended to his own 
bedroom, than Tom Naddy, starting into one of his unusual 
instants of energy, very unceremoniously removed puss 
from his lap, darted through the open doorway of the 
house, and through that of the little yard also, and almost 
the next minute was shouldering into the cabin where he 
guessed Mrs. Molloy to be stationed, his assumption of 
briskness being, however, now forgotten, just as suddenly 
as it had seized upon him, while he moved very leisurely 
and whistled slowly and beautifully. 

When he confronted hex*, Mrs. Molloy paused in the 
midst of a holding forth, her hand suspended in mid air, 
and her tongue, for a novelty, between her open lips. 

" Didn't I lave you, well latched in, to mind the house ?* 
she asked in stern astonishment 

" There's some latch-kays that opens what other lafrh* 
kays shots in," answered Tom. 

" What's that you say ?" 



FATHER CONNELL. 69 

"Fhu V (shivering) "it's a cowld bitther night to deep 
widout blankets," was Tom's far-off answer, and he resumed 
his interrupted whistling. 

" Didn't you hear me, Tom Naddy?— didn't I lave you in 
charge of the place?" 

" Yes ma — ma'am ; but mostha, I couldn't stop his hand, 
if 'twas his liking to sthrip the house from the kitchen to 
the tatch on the roof in it, what I blieve hell do afore he 
laves off" 

" It's the masther at his work agin, neighbors," cried 
Mrs. Molloy, starting up and seizing her cloak, " jist as I 
was telling you! He won't lave himself, poor fool iv a 
man, a blanket to cover his bed — no, nor a shirt to cover 
his ould skin! 111 tell ye something he done that-o-way, 
for the hundredth time, a little while agone — " 

Tom Naddy deemed that she was staying too long from 
home, and interrupted her — " there's other blankets in the 
house as well as his own, and other things like shirts, too." 

She 'started back, asking in her guttural tones, with utter 
surprise— " Is it my blankets, or any of my things you'd 
spake of?" 

Tom broke up his whistling only with a sedate nod of 
assent. 

Mrs. Molloy bounded, as well as she could, out of tin 
cabin. She encountered Father Oonnell and Neddy Fen- 
nell in the middle of the yard, each heavily laden, and jus' 
about to -escape with their spoil She whisked the tails of 
her cloak over each arm, thus having her hands at liberty 
to stretch themselves out, while her voice croaked more 
than usual, and the beard on her two chins might be said 
to stir and bristle. 

" Well to be sure 1 Isn't this a poor case 1 Fm down- 
right ashamed o' you, sir 1 It's a burning scandal, sir — an' 
will you never give up these doings? — an' I'll not stand 
this, sir — an' I'll not put up with it, sir — an' 111 have you 
to know that I won't, sir !" 

Father Conriell, thus detected, after all his precautions, 
only smiled inwardly, however, as he said in a temporising 
voice, " Peggy, Peggy, anger is a deadly sin !" 

" An' what kind of a sin do you call thievin', sir? Yea, 
thievin'— J can call it by no other name, sir." 

" Let me pass out, good woman," said the priest sternly, 



70 FATHER CONNELL. 

although he was now more disposed to laugh heartily ; 
" and be patient, Peggy, be patient." 

"Patient, in troth ! patient! I can't be patient — and to 
ould Nick I pitch patience ! — Look at that big hape nndther 
your arum — my own things rowled up along wid yours ! — 
patient ! why, if a holy saint was sent o' purpose down to 
keep house for you, and to look afther herself and yourself, 
you'd torment the very life and sowl out iv her in a week, 
so you would ; here I am, from Sunday morning to Satur- 
day night, striving, an' scraping, an 9 piecing, an' patching, 
for the two ov us — an* all to no purpose— no, but worser 
an' worser for all I can do; an now to make up the 
matther, you come ov sich an evening as this, and ov sich a 
night as this will be, to make me an' you get our death o' 
cowld in our beds." 7 

"There is no fear of that, Peggy; we can still manage to 
rest comfortably, for one short night, in a good, warm 
house ; but I must go with these things to the help of two 
poor, naked women, who might really perish before morn- 
ing on the damp earth, and without covering of any kind; 
so you had better let us go on our way peaceably, 

Mrs. Molloy darted quickly at Neddy Fennell, making a 
grasp at his burden, as she vociferated — "go on your 
way ! — the long and the short ov it is, since you put me to 
it, there is no blanket to lave this to-night-— no, nor the 
thread ov a blanket." 

Her master now became really severe and determined. 
He removed her arm from the boy's fardel, put her to one 
side, and saying, "Be silent, my good woman, be silent, 
and stand out of my way ; — more than once since you came 
in here, you have uttered sin with your lips, and offended 
me — of that we will speak another time ; — now, go out of 
my way, I say — I command you ;— come, Neddy Fennell, 
come ;" and without further opposition from Mrs. Molloy, 
who became perfectly stunned at this sudden and most 
unexpected annihilation of her authority — the priest and 
his follower cleared the premises. 

A moment after their departure, Tom Naddy lounged to 
her side from the corner of an end wall of the stable, round 
which all along he had been listening and peeping; and 
While Mrs. Molloy still stood silent and utterly confounded, 



FATHER CONNELL. 71 

remarked — " Ho! ho! — so, the priest is to do whatever he 
likes in the house for the future." 

"Get outj you kiln-dried brat!" was the housekeeper's 
only reply, as she stamped, in much dignity, into her 
kitchen ; while on his part Tom only sauntered after her, 
and resumed his place and his cat upon the hob. 

Father Connell, closely followed by Neddy Fennell, bent 
his steps, by the least observable route, back again to the 
shower of houses* On his way thither, however, he stopped 
at more than one suburb shop to purchase, with the shil- 
lings he had almost thieved from his own curious escratoiro, 
additional articles of comfort for the Widow Fennell and 
her aged aunt 

He has been observed re-entering the abode of the potato- 
beggars. A moment after, the two poor, shivering, half- 
dead women in the inner dungeon, saw, with feelings and 
sensations which only those who for a long time have been 
very, very poor, and neglected, can at all understand, the 
unloading from the shoulders, and the arms, and the hands 
of the old man and the boy, the nice, clean, fresh straw, 
the gracious roll of blankets, a basketful of bread, a little 
crock of salt butter, a whole pound of halfpenny candles, 
and two or three black bottles, with old corks in them, 
containing huxter's ale and porter. 

Standing quite erect, a disencumbered man, after getting 
rid of his burdens, Father Connell paused a moment, to 
'wipe his brow with his handkerchief; then silently went to 
the miserable couches of the two forlorn sufferers ; squeezed 
their hands in turn, and passed into the comparatively 
aristocratic abode of Nelly Carty and Bridget Mulrooney ; 
and just after doing so, he thought he caught whisperings 
between Mrs. Fennell and her young son, as if in explana- 
tion of what had come about, and almost immediately 
following, sounds of suppressed crying, though not in an 
unhappy cadence. 

No matter how our hero, Father Connell, arranged with 
the two good ladies of the mansion, they quickly went in to 
their lodgers, to all appearance most benevolently, and, of 
course, fussily active. The priest sat down before their 
impudent little fire, calling Neddy Fennell to him. The 
little lad slowly though immediately obeyed his old friend's 
summons, reclining on the floor, and gently leaning the 



72 FATHER CONNELL. 

wde of his head upon one of the priest's knees. He diA 
not speak a word, but knowing that he was weeping plen- 
tifully in his silence, his patron just slid down his hand, 
fumbled for one of Neddy's, and squeezed it, and squeezed 
it 

The pair rose up, as the two potato-beggars approached 
the fire, each with one of their poor inmates, carried like 
weak, burthenless infants, in her arms ; and, be it added, 
both the hitherto destitute women well wrapped up in 
blankets, with intimations here and there about their necks 
of inside personal comforters, previously the property of 
Mrs. Molloy. 

Father Connell then went back to their bed-room — with 
Neddy's help bore out portions of the bread and butter 
and a bottle of the small porter : mulled some of the latter 
with his own hands, and leaving his protegees to enjoy so 
far, under the still bustling attentions of their landladies, 
unwonted luxuries, again took Neddy into the inner cham- 
ber, which he and his young assistant did not quit until 
they had heaped, breast high, their stolen straw into two 
palmy couches, and scientifically pressed each down, and 
covered each with a half of a yet unappropriated blanket, 
torn asunder by them according to their best skill In 
fact, that blessed night, our old fairy friend, poor little 
Fanny Fennell, and her infirm old aunt, went to sleep, the 
first time for many months, in downy comfort, and with a 
happy sense of animal warmth and refreshment, and a still* 
still happier moral sense of yet having a single friend left 
to them in the wide, cold world. Before they quite closed 
their eyes, as they laughed and cried at one and the same 
time, how often did their prayers and their blessings 
ascend, not unheard, we do reverently hope, to the foot- 
stool of The Throne, for the earthly and eternal welfare of 
their simple-hearted, unostentatious, humble Samaritan ! 

It was still necessary, for the second time this evening, 
that Neddy Fennell should guide his priest through the 
mazes of the shower of houses. They arrived at the spot 
where they were finally to part for the night. The priest 
here stopped for an instant to bid Neddy good-nigh*, and 
ive him his blessing. As he was turning homewards, the 

•y spoke in low, broken accents : — 

"Wait a minute, sir, if you please — I want to say a word 



£ 



FATHER COXNELL. 73 

to you. It may be on your mind, sir, from the way that I 
Helped tou, and spoke to yon, this evening, in the stable, 
with other things, that I'm a cold-hearted boy, with no 
thought or feeling in me, for my mother's and my aunt's 
distress, and for your kindness ; but indeed I'm not, sir; — 
I'm not that, sir, indeed ; — I — I — " And here the giddy- 
pated little fellow could get no further, but breaking out 
into sobbing and crying, turned his back on the priest, and 
ran home as fast as he could. 

In a very short time afterwards, Father Connell, and 
Mrs. Molloy, and Tom Naddy, were as good friends as 
ever they had been in their lives. The housekeeper placed 
before him the little measure of ale, with a foaming head 
on it, which he emptied every night before going to bed, 
and which, with a crust to eke it out, was his beau-ideal 
of luxurious indulgence. A good fire, renewed by cinders, 
heated his outstretched limbs, and glittered in the large 
silver buckles of his shoes. To his left hand was his allow- 
ance of ale ; to his right, pen and ink ; and while he sipped 
his beverage, and munched his crust, we may transcribe — 
peeping over his shoulders, as well as the protuberance of 
the great wig above his ears will allow — the following 
entries, made by him in a curiously-covered book, which 
he called his journal, and, in which, for very many years, 
he had made some daily notes. 

" I got up at three o'clock this morning to say my usual 
matins : it threatened to be a bitter day, and a bitter day 
it has been. I went to bed at four, and slept very well 
until seven ; attended the chapel at eight : the snow was 
pelting in my face. God help the poor ! Will the disbe- 
liever persuade the poor man that there is no heaven ? —he 
would then make the lot of the poor a hard one indeed. 
Those who sleep on beds of the softest down, and need but 
to wish for everything in order to have it, are they as good 
Christians as the Widow Fennell and her aunt have been ? 
God bless the good friends whose bounty enabled me to 
put warm clothing on so many naked children and boys 
this day. Mick Dempsev would cover the shivering body 
of only a good boy — Mick does not remember that the 
blast is as bitter to the bad boy as to the good boy ; and 
that the Lord does not send the sunshine to the good only. 
It is not wise to drive even the most wicked to despair ; if 



74 FATHER CONNBfA. 

they have no hope of being better they will not try to be 
so ; and Mick Dempsey was not right when he gave me to 
understand that I was encouraging idleness. I humbly 
hope that I was doing something that may help to change 
it into industry. Neglected my middle of the day prayers. 
Misere mei Dominel Our prayers should never be over- 
looked, especially by a priest ; a priest is bound to give 
good example ; he cannot hope to do this without grace; 
4nd grace is chiefly to be obtained by prayer. Reprehen- 
ded Peggy Mollov for her tongue and bad language — not 
too severely, I think — and she seems the better of it ; she 
is faithful and honest ; a faithful and honest servant is a 
treasure; but Peggy must be taught not to fall into a 
passion ; violent anger is like drunkenness — for the drunk- 
en and the angry man both forget their wisdom ; almost 
as many crimes spring from the one as the other. The 
first fair day I have I must beg all through the town, and 
then in the country, for the Widow Fennell, her poor 
aunt, and young Neddy. God help them alL I love that 
little boy in my very heart, and with God's help will be an 
earthly father to him." 

And so ended our priest's entries in his journal for one 
day. 



CHAPTER EL 



Aonvs charity, like all other active things, when once 
pat into motion, soon gains its goal Father Connell had 
been saying and doing, and going backwards and for- 
wards a good deal, to say nothing of contriving and 
suffering a good deal, since he first left his school-house 
for the shower of houses this evening ; and yet though all 
his contemplated work is now over, laid he is luxuriantly 
preparing for bed at home, it is still early in the night. 
Neddy Fennell arrived at the door of his lodgings, after 
his final parting with his priest, while the nine o'clock bell 
—the curfew — or, as it was locally and elegantly termed, 
the " blackguards' bell " rang out a quick peal from the 



FATHER CONNELL. 75 

•curious wooden structure, very like an opera glass pulled 
out — surmounting the market-house of his native city. 

His knock and request for re-admission were soon at- 
tended to, his small boy's voice outside being a sufficient 
warrant to his landladies of his identity. Passing into 
tbeir house, a glance towards the fire showed him that the 
honest dames had contrived, during his short absence, to 
replace, as originally arranged, all the materials for their 
feast, which Father ConnelTs unexpected return caused 
them to push aside here and there and hide as well as they 
could, and the cook for the evening had the " tay " again 
nearly hot enough, while the bottle of " colliery crame " 
once more flanked it 

Without making further observations, however, the boy 
passed into the apartment occupied by his mother and her 
aunt, to observe how they were disposed of for the night 
Under the influence of all the comforts they had just ex- 
perienced, the poor women already began to doze. One 
of his mother's hands hung by the side of her couch. He 
went on his knees and gently stole it back again — but not 
before his lips had touched it — under the blankets ; and 
then, bestowing a little thought on himself, Neddy took a 
goodly lump of bread from the basket on the floor ; at the 
repeated invitations of Nelly Carty and Bridget Mulrooney, 
stole out on tiptoe, to their fire, accepted a proffered seat 
on one of the yellow clay hobs ; and while industriously 
making way through his supper, he could not avoid becom- 
ing greatly interested in the resumed conversation of his 
hostesses. 

" Well, Nelly," said Bridget, " here we are on the hunk- 
ers before our little fire again, and what is left of the tay 
and the cake a'most as good as ever ; and it's mad intirely 
I am, yis indeed, to hear the rest that you have to tell 
about that Robin Costigan." 

" Well, an' sure, lanna machree, Nelly Carty won't be 
long till she satisfies you. Well, Bridget, sure, as I gave 
you to untherstand afore the ould priest kem in, Bobin 
and myself were great cronies, and faix, I'll never deny 
that I liked the boy well. Bud, Bridget, sure it happened 
one of a time, that my poor Bobin borry'd the loan iv a 
horse, widout axin' lave, an' sure over again, he was cotch 
on the back of that horse at a fair in the Queen's County ; 



76 FATHER CONNELL. 

and they brought the poor boy to his thrial afore the judg^ 
an' I thought my heart would break, they found him guilty, 
an' sintinced him to die. An' sure enough, the ugly lookin 1 
gallows was put up for Robin on the Green abroad, and 
sure enough he was walked to the gallows, and it was the 
same Father Connell that quitted us a little while agone, 
that stepped out by his side to the gallow's fut Well, 
asthore. The day that was in it was a winter's day. I'll 
never forget it, one o' the dark, black days afore Christ- 
mas ; and the evenin' began to fall a'most before he turned 
off; an' when the time came to cut the rope, cut it was; 
and sure meeself was the very girl that caught him in my 
arms." 

" Yourself, Nelly ?" half shrieked Bridget. As for Ned- 
dy Fennell, his jaws stopped grinding his loaf, while he 
stared in startled surprise at the narrator. 

"Meeself, Bridget Well, alanna maehree, sure I thought 
I felt a stir in my poor Robin," Neddy Fennell had taken 
another bite at his loaf, but again stopped short in his 
preparations to masticate it. 

" An' you couldn't count twenty, afore I had him in a 
good warm bed, and Darby Croak the bleether there by ' 
His side; an' surely, surely, the stir in poor Robin got 
more life in it from time to time ; an' surely, surely, over 
agin, many hours didn't go by till we had my poor fellow 
alive, an' as well as ever — ay, an' laughin' heartily too at 
the brave escape he had — tho' that, afther all, might be a 
little bit iv a secret betuxt himself an' the skibbetah* — an* 
faix we spent as pleasant a night as kem from that to 
this — in wakin' the poor corpse, as we called it." 

"Are you tellin' the truth, Nelly Carty?" gasped Neddy 
Fennell quite aghast 

"Wait, Neddy, my pet — sure there's a little more to 
come. It was about an hour afore daybreak, when my 
poor Robin strolled out, just to see how his legs would go 
on along some iv the roads convainent afther the dance 
upon nothin' they had the day afore. In the coorse iv the 
night, sure he swore a big oath to us, that he'd never borry 
a horse agin, becase they war unlooky cattle ; but he made 
no oath agin cows, and it's as thrue as that I'm sittin' here 
tellin' it, afore the mornin' quite broke, Robin borryed a 



FATHER CONNELL. 77 

nice fat oow out of a field by the roadside. Well, dtanna 
machree, the oow didn't turn out a lookier baste for Robin 
nor the horse." 

" What's that you're goin' to say, now," again interrupted 
Neddy Fennell ; " was he hanged over again, Nelly ?" 

"Faix, an' if he wasn't* Neddy, my honey, he had very 
little to spare that he wasn't ; for the man that .thought he 
had a betther right to the cow than Robin, soon missed her, 
an' ran thro' the town clappin' his hands, an' got all the help 
he could ; an' sure they ail kem up with the poor boy, on 
the road to the fair ov Bennet's-bridge, an' he in the cow's 
company ; an' so they laid hoult on him, an' made him turn 
back, without the cow, and they rammed him into their 
gaol agin." 

" Well," whispered Neddy. 

" Well, a^iiMa-gal-machree, there he was, shure enough 
— only not for a long time, for well became Robin, he found 
manes ov breakin' out ov their gaol, an' from that blessed 
hour to this no livin' crature but myself ever set eyes on 
him in the town. But now, listen well to me, Bridget, and 
you, Neddy Fennell ; afther nve-an'-thirtv years is past an' 

Sone, an' I an ould woman, I seen Robin Costigan, this 
ay, as sure as I now see ye both forenent me." / 

Many were the ejaculations of surprise, and, indeed, 
almost of terror, uttered by the listeners. "And to-day, 
Nelly? — when? where? how?" they asked together. 

" Whist ! spake lower, none ov us spoke very loud yet, 
but now we are to spake lower than ever — and for a good 
rason. I said that Father Connell had a sharp eye, and 
that he ought to remember Robin Gostigan, for wasn't it 
he that made his sowl for him at the gallow's fut ? But 
the ould priest couldn't know him now, Bridget, for Robin 
is changed by years, and he is changed by conthrivances, 
but I knew him well, Bridget, from the minute I saw him. 
I can't say that he had the same knowledge of me when he 
looked me in the face — but I used to be too fond iv him 
long ago, ever, ever to forget him. And I tell you I saw 
him this very day, and I tell you more than that, I saw 
him in the very next house — in Joan Flaherty's house." 

Bridget Mulrooney thumped her breast, crossed herself, 
and turned up her eyes. Neddy Fennell jumped off the 
hob, breathing hard, and frowning abhorringly, and it 



78 FATHER CONNELL. 

would seem indignantly, at the remote end wall of the 
hovel, which divided him from Joan Flaherty's house. 
This wall, however, did not rise higher than the point at 
which the wattles of the roof commenced, so that an in- 
mate of either abode could, by standing on a chair, or even 
upon a stool, peep into the other. 

After a few moments, Nelly Carty resumed slowly, and 
in whispers, and Neddy again seating himself on the hob, 
changed his wide opened, glowing eyes from the end wall 
to her face. 

" An' he is a beggarman, now, iv you plaise ; and he has 
a poor, withered limb, morya* an' I seen three childher 
wid him that he takes into the street, when he goes a-beg- 
ging." 

" Tell me this, Nelly," asked Neddy Fennell suddenly, 
and as if wishing for an answer in the affirmative, " if the 
judge heard he was alive, wouldn't he have him hung over 
again?" 

" Faix, an 9 I'm thinking he would, my lanna ; sure they 
owe him the last hanging, at any rate ; an' I'd go bail if 
they had a hoult iv him now, the/d — but be asy wid your 
tricks, ye young limb." 

A handful of small pebbles, as it seemed, clattering and 
jingling among Nelly's " tay-things," caused her thus sud- 
denly to interrupt herself. 

" It wasn't I that did it, Nelly, though I often played 
you a trick before now," answered Neddy Fennell very 
slowly, and in the least possible whisper — "it wasn't I that 
did it ; but just turn your head behind you, and look 
towards the far end of the room." 

" Don't, Bridget ! Don't for the world wide," admon- 
ished Nelly—" it's himself is in it — I know it is ; for there 
is no male crature living on Joan Flaherty's flure along wid 
him." 

So neither of the good ladies obeyed Neddy Fennell's 
command. The boy, however, saw indistinctly, in the al- 
most complete darkness, at the remote point he peered at, 
the head and shoulders of a man elevated over the imper- 
fect division walL 

"Is the ould priest gone?" asked this apparition, in 
stealthy and husky tones. 

•57 the way. 



FATHER CORNELL. 79 

Nelly winked at Bridget to answer, and Bridget accord-* 
ingly said — " He is gone these three hours, neighbor." 

"Will he come agin to-night, ye ould coUochsV** con- 
tinued the same voice. 

"No, surely, neighbor ; he is gone for this night, sartin." 

"Bannath lath,f then," and the head and shoulders dis- 
appeared. A dead silence succeeded. Nelly Carty held 
up her hand, and significantly looked her meaning at 
Bridget Mulrooney, who, in return, nodded her head. 

"Neddy Fennell," added Nelly, "for the worth ov the 
life that's in you, and that's in all our bodies," — she whis- 
pered these words into his very ear — " don't let out o' you 
a breath of what you have heard here this night ; — mind 
my words." 

They all went to bed, Neddy lying down on some straw, 
confronting that side of the house occupied by Monsieur 
the pig ; while his gentle hostesses, unfolding certain 
rolled-up parcels in the corners to the right and left of 
the fire-place, but which, after all, contained only straw 
pallets, with very wretched covering, made their own 
couches thereof. 



CHAPTER X. 



So full of the idea of Robin Costigan — the man that had 
been nearly twice hung, thirty-five years ago, and yet at 
present was alive — so full of this unique personage was 
Neddy Fennell's head, that for hours he could not sleep. 
He felt, above all things, great curiosity, to see distinctly 
the features of the fellow, towards whom he could not 
avoid indulging prepossessions of awe and terror, along 
with those of strong dislike and distrust Neddy's terror 
was not, however, of the cowardly kind. 

At last he did sleep, but his slumbers were disturbed, 
with dream after dream of the fearful robber, and each 
of the most distressingly nervous kind ; until at last be 

* Hags. t Good-night 



80 FATHER CONNELL. 

started awake again, trembling and shuddering, and 
bathed in perspiration. 

The darkness around him was so deep, that "a horror of 
it," as is sublimely said in the holy writings, "fell upon 
him." The wintry winds abroad whistled and piped 
around the half-rotten hovel which enclosed him, and 
sometimes, swelling into a great rage, pushed and jostled, 
as it were, against its mud walls until they shook again. 
Presently, a weak cry of human sorrow, mingled, he 
thought, with the alternate wailing, and howling, and 
roaring of the blast He quickly sat up on his straw 
couch, and listened intently. The cries were repeated, he 
became quite sure ; and more, they came over the boun- 
dary wall between him and Robin Costigan's lodging. 

He continued to listen. In one of the half pauses of the 
tempest, the poor, weak cry changed into a smothered 
shriek, immediately after the sound, as if of a heavy blow, 
had reached Neddy's ears. 

"Helo there I" he suddenly screamed out, his shrill, 
young voice piercing above the various noises of the wind. 

All sounds ceased in the neighboring hut He listened 
attentively, still neither the poor weak cry, nor the blow, 
nor the shriek, was repeated. He dropped asleep again ; 
and, as the first peep of day struggled, doubtless unwil- 
lingly, through the atmosphere of the shower of houses, 
Neddy was up and out, washing his face in the snow, 
drifted before the house-door, half in great glee, half in a 
luxurious feeling of refreshment ; and when his toilet had 
been completed, the light-hearted boy industriously fell to 
work making snow-balls, piling them pyramidically at his 
side, and peering around him in every direction for the 
approach of some foe, against whom he might discharge 
them. 

In the twilight of the bleak and bitter winter morning, 
not many objects of enmity appeared, however, stirring 
abroad ; but the few who did appear within range of his 
battery, soon felt a snow-shot breaking about their ears ; 
for Master Neddy Fennell had often shared in a "pelting- 
match" of no very playful character, between the mutually 
abhorring boys of two rival schools ; so that from practice, 
his aim, particularly when directed against a human 
cranium, became almost unerring. 



FATHER CONNELL. 81 

He was pausing for a new enemy ; none appeared ; but 
the patched and tattered door of Joan Flaherty's abode 
nttered a squeak, and then it slowly opened a little, and a 
man's head, thickly covered with matted grey hair, pro- 
truded itself through the opening, and now turned one 
way, and now another, as if, by the agency of its proper 
eyes, taking an observation of the weather. 

"The old robber's head!" thought Neddy, frowning and 
setting his teeth, and looking hard to make out Robin 
Costigan's features. But he could distinguish none, the 
head being poked forward, so that only its large crown 
became satisfactorily visible ; Neddy had in his right hand 
as nice a snow-ball as even he had ever manufactured. 
With both hands he now gave it two or three additional 
squeezes, until it grew almost as hard as a stone ; the next 
instant bang it went, like a bursting bomb-shell, against 
the crown of the mysterious and detested head, causing, it 
mav be presumed, an explosion like thunder in the ears 
and in the interior of its object, at all events making that 
object disappear, as if it and its owner had been sent stag- 
gering backwards into Mrs. Flaherty's, or Miss Flaherty's 
tenement; for the question of title was, in the present 
case, rather a debated one. 

Many seconds did not elapse before Neddy had the door 
of his own temporary residence secured on the inside; 
and, while his landladies and their pig still slept on and 
snorted together, was peeping into his neighbor's apart- 
ment, over the division wall, just as Robert Costigan, 
though from its other side, had peeped over it, the night 
before, into the secrecy of the residence of Mesdames 
Carty and Mulrooney. 

Here he at first saw nothing but smoke. Waiting some 
time, and peering more sharply, he at length imperfectly 
discerned Joan Flaherty — a naif-blind, and a wholly deaf 
and stupid old crone — sitting on her heels at a hearth, 
upon which, using her own mouth as a bellows, she puffed 
and puffed with a view of kindling some atrocious materials 
for a fire ; while almost for every puff she coughed and 
coughed, as if earnestly trying to force up her worn-out 
lungs. But though the young eaves-dropper could as yet 
see no living thing but Joan, lie could hear the sounds of 
other human voices than hers. He could hear threats and 



82 FATHER CONNELL. 

imprecations uttered in a morose, masculine voice, and 
plaintive expostulations, or lamentations, in the tones, 
he believed, which had reached him the previous night; 
and the subdued cry of an infant, too, and the sturdier 
wail of another young voice — all mixed up with the cough- 
ing, and the wheezing, and the bellows-blowing of old 
Joan. The venemous smoke made Neddy's eyes smart 
and run water; still he perseveringly clung, insecurely 
supported, to the top of the mud wall In about half an 
hour, the exhausted beldame had succeeded in kindling 
her fire, and having previously thrown open the door of 
her house to let out the pestilent fog it nad engendered, 
Neddy could make further observations. Standing near to 
her, and towards the farther side of the fire, he saw a man 
of rather low stature, yet of herculean build, combing with 
his fingers, over his forehead and face, and even upon his 
shoulders, his long, dishevelled, grey hair ; and from the 
care with which the operation was performed, it seemed 
evident that he considered it one of great importance. He 
was enveloped in a loose, blue frieze coat, reaching in 
tatters below his knees ; the half of his legs, that could be 
seen from under it, were bare ; and old brogues, too large 
for him, and partially stuffed with straw — as was indicated 
by blades of that article starting up over their inner sides 
— adorned his immense ill-shaped feet. Again Neddy 
Fennell tried to make out the features of Robin Costigan, 
but the redoubtable robber stood with his side turned to 
Neddy ; and this circumstance, aided by the thick veil of 
grey hair, and the high-standing collar of Robin's wrap- 
rascal, once more baffled his scrutiny. 

Other objects drew Neddy's deep attention. While en- 
gaged in his toilet, as has been described, Robin Costigan 
severely studied the proceedings of three children, who had 
not yet quite arisen from the straw, in which during the 
night they had burrowed. One was a girl of about nine 
years, wearing only the scantiest and most shreddy 
drapery, secured by any possible contrivance, around her 
elegantly formed little person. The second was a boy, an 
incipient giant — say of five years. His upper dress con- 
sisted of an old waistcoat, Ins bare arms thrust through its 
arm-holes ; while a threadbare piece of sacking, tied round 
his waist, descended almost to his feet. And the third 



FATHER CONNELL. 88 

child was no more thai, an infant, rolled up in a most 
curious bundle of rags ; its sex is not yet known ; but the 
.strong presumption is, that it was a little female human 
creature. 

The girl was busily employed scrubbing at the infant's 
face, with a coarse damp cloth. The boy was sitting in his 
straw, his chin resting on his little fists, and they in turn 
resting on his crippled-up knees — it was perfectly evident, 
that he contemplated, in mortal terror aud deep dislike, 
the process he beheld going on, inasmuch as he expected to 
be himself very soon subjected to a similar one. 

The infant gave a restive squall, and had it been any 
other infant, would certainly have fought, with full lungs, 
kicks, and wreathings, against the uncongenial friction in- 
flicted upon its face in such very, very, cold weather. But 
a bellow from the man of the tattered "riding-coat," at 
once terrified the little animal into seeming acquiescence ; 
it became silent and still, tears only running down its 
miserable face, as it fixed its frightened eyes on the 
bellower. 

" DiviTs in your wizend, ye sheeog" * apostrophized the 
superintendent of the scrubbing, " there's no squall from 
you when it's wantin' ; but I'll learn you to bawl out in the 
right time, and to hould your whisht in the right time — 
burroo 1 " — another bellow — "hould it up to me here," ad- 
dressing the scrubber, who with visible trepidation obeyed. 
The man critically inspected the face, neck, hands, and 
arms of the unfortunate baby, twisting it and its little 
limbs here and there, with about as much compassion as ii 
he were scrutinizing the points of a turkey offered to him 
for sale. He continued, speaking to the little girl — 

" Well for you, you jade, that there's not a speck, the 
size of a pin's head, or I'd make you rue the day ; fall to 
the legs and feet now, an' make 'em as clean as a whistle ;" 
and he went on combing his hair with his fingers. 

" Hould it up agin," he commanded, after a short pause. 
" Do you call them washed, you faggot ? " and he accom- 
panied his words with a blow from his open hand that sent 
the girl and the infant rolling in the straw. She could not 
keep in a scream. " Not a tune from you now, or I'll give 

•Fairy •struck chM—ftfeirx. 



84 FATHER CORNELL 

yon last night over agin ; " he snatched np a cudgel near 
at hand. 

"I won't cry, nor I won't sav one word — I won't* I 
won't, sir dear," said the little scrubber, clasping her charge 
with one of her bare arms, rising to her knees, and joining 
both her hands. 

"It will keep for another time, then," and the cudgel 
was put aside ; " but go on with your work, I tell you, and 
don't bring my hand on you." 

Her eyes gushing, but every whisper kept in, she pro- 
ceeded still further to torture the infant, by rubbing with 
the coarse, wet cloth at its legs and feet, as if she were 
bound to rub them quite away. Her overseer inspected 
her work again, and grumbled something like a half 
approval He then examined the cap which was to cover 
the little being's head for the day, and which the girl ought 
to have perfectly washed over night. It was found not to 
be at all satisfactory, and a second swinging blow from his 
open hand followed. 

The tire-woman, before she could recover herself, was 
next ordered to attack with her cloth the shivering and 
detesting young rascal, who, it has been said, awaited his 
turn in no amiable feelings. Very well did he know that he 
must not utter a sound of disapproval in the presence of 
the grey-headed supervisor; but to make amends for his 
silence he bit, whenever he thought that he was unob- 
served by his tyrant, the hands and arms of his attendant, 
until he almost fetched blood from them ; while she, poor 
young creature, durst not utter a sound of complaint. 

Her own person was next to be looked after ; her pretty 
little face, her neck, arms, and hands, and her lower limbs 
and extremities to be carefully washed ; and her abundant 
golden hair to be combed and adjusted in its natural curls 
adown her cheeks and shoulders with the best possible 
effect And until this new task was completed to the full 
approval oi her master, she was scrutinized and found fault 
with, as in the case of the infant and boy, and heavy 
punishment was still inflicted. 

She now produced a small bag containing about one 
dozen of potatoes, and these she was commanded to wash, 
and place on the fire to boil ; after which the man gave 
peremptory orders that the " breakfast" should be finished, 



FATHER C01TOBLL, 85 

and the three children ready to set out with him into the 
streets " in the turn of a hand;" and then he left the hovel 
A short time afterwards he might be found in a mean 
public house, sitting to a good fire, with his own breakfast 
placed before him, consisting of a loaf of bread, a cut of 
butter, a dish of " rashers and eggs," and a quart of mulled 
porter, with a "stick in it" — that is to say, about twol 
glasses of whiskey. As he opened the door to go out, 
Neddy Fennell abandoned his post of observation, with the 
view of at last fully confronting him abroad, and reading 
attentively the mysterious features of the half-hanged 
scoundrel ; but a call from his mother's couch was not to be 
neglected. 

He found the poor woman and her aunt much refreshed 
after a good night's sleep. Milk had been sent that morn- 
ing by Father Oonnell for their and his use ; this he heated, 
and Neddy's patients soon ate a hearty breakfast He then 
prepared some for himself and put it into a noggin lent 
to him by his landladies ; also furnished himself with his 
share of bread — and be it noticed, not mere than his share 
— took a few bites and sips, and passed, with the bread in 
one hand and the noggin in the other, into the neighboring 
wigwam. 

The small pot containing the dozen potatoes was now 
boiled in this plentiful house and taken on the fire ; and to 
one side of it sat the cook who had prepared them, the 
baby on her knees ; to the other, the gruff little boy who 
had so well bitten her knelt to his occupation, as if he felt 
more devotion towards it than could be expressed by a 
sitting posture ; for the trio were engaged, each more or 
less, in consuming the contents of the pot 

To make amends for the late coercion imposed on its 
natural propensity to cry out as shrilly as it could, the 
nondescript infant now screamed at the pitch of three 
Scotch bagpipes ; while its nurse endeavored literally to 
stop its mouth with the largest potatoes she could find, 
herself being only able from time to time to swallow a 
scanty mouthful. Not so the wicked-faced young cannibal 
opposite to her. Resolved, he seemed, as in truth resolved 
he was, to take ample advantage of her inability to satisfy 
her appetite. He peeled off the skins of the potatoes, and 
then oropped them, as it were, into his stomach with as- 



86 FATHER CONNELL. 

founding despatch ; yet it was not an expression of relish 
of his fare that appeared in his face ; it was the jealoux 
fierceness of craving hunger ; and his scowl at the girl was 
actually ferocious whenever she abstracted a potato frons 
the limited store, which he could have well appropriated 
entirely to himseli 

Neddy Eennell stood over this group without being no- 
ticed by any one of it Laying his bread across his noggin, 
and the hand that had lately held it upon the glossy golder 
hair of the little maid-of-all-work — 

" My poor little girl," he said, " will you take a little bit 
of bread, and a little hot milk from me r* 

She started and raised her eyes ; now that it could be 
viewed clearly her face looked prettier than before; but 
she only stared at Neddy without uttering a word. 

" Try it, poor little girl," he went on, seating himself on 
the floor by her side, " taste it— do now ; 'tis very nice, and 
'tis my own." He did not know how to account for her 
look of speechless astonishment ; but it was the very first 
time during that little creature's whole life, that a human 
voice had so sounded in her ears, or a human hand had 
been so stretched forth to offer her unbegged food. He 
broke a morsel of bread and put it into her hand ; she 
mechanically conveyed it to her lips, and then ate it raven- 
ously. Neddy held up his noggin to her, and inclining it 
sideways for her accommodation, she drank a little of the 
hot milk. Tears then ran from her eyes, while in the cant 
of the profession in which she had been tutored, she 
whined out : — 

"May God reward the hand of help, and the tendher 
heart of charity." 

" Give me some of that," growled the little savage at the 
other side of the pot. 

"You ?" answered Neddy — " I won't give you a mouth- 
ful." 

" By the big divil, 111 tell the ould fellow, if ye don't," 
retortod the apt scholar of a worthy teacher. 

" Here, then, here," said the governess, quickly handing 
over to him almost the whole of the pieces of bread her 
young visitor had given her, in the teeth of Neddy's re- 
monstrances to prevent her doing so. They disappeared 
as quickly as does a fish into water. 



FATHER COKNELL. 87 

" And the good milk ! " he continued hoarsely, for some 
of the unaccustomed food had stuck in his throat. 

She ran over to him, the infant chucked up on one arm> 
with the noggin, which Neddy had now left, according to 
her entreaties, at her disposal 

The bundled-up infant, seeing that all was holiday 
around it, held out its arms, opened its mouth to an unu- 
sual span, and alsoiyranmcally insisted on its share. Its 
poor little attendant could not, or at least did not reject its 
appeal, so that in a few moments, neither Neddy nor his 
new acquaintance had another mouthful of the bread and 
milk to divide between themselves. 

But in a very short time, notwithstanding this privation, 
they were making each other's acquaintance rapidly. At 
Neddy's repeated solicitations, the little girl went into a 
history of all her sorrows, speaking in whispers, lest the 
prematurely desperate character, who had so often fas- 
tened his tusks in her flesh, might overhear the discourse. 
Neddy listened, sometimes in pity, sometimes in wrath ; 
and with his whole heart and soul his eyes were fastened 
unwinkingly upon her face, and one of his hands were 
again laid unconsciously on her shining, golden hair ; sud- 
denly he felt her start and shudder, while her looks fixed 
upon some object, in a very agony of terror. The next 
instant, Neddy Fennell and Robin Costigan were staring 
directly at each other. 

The beggarman's lip and chin had not been shaved for 
some time, so that the growth of his beard disguised the 
form of his mouth. His nose, too, was but half distin- 
guishable through the streaks of grey hair, which he had 
combed with his fingers nearly over its whole length, and 
so far, all appeared sufficiently lachrymose and pity-stir- 
ring in his physiognomy. But even tnrought he shade of 
that hair, two eyes darted their rays upon Neddy Fennell, 
under the bad and deep expression of which the intrepid 
boy quailed for a moment, but it was only for a moment ; 
and then his steady though inquisitive glance, fully met 
the baleful glare of the other. 

" Who are you, my chap ?" demanded the beggarman. 

"Tni myself, and who are you?" smartly asked Neddy 
in his turn. 

" Ydu live in the next house ? " 



88 FATHER CONNELL. 

"To be snre I do— well?" 

The man did not immediately continue speaking. He 
took up the infant, and folded it very deliberately into the 
bosom of his loose blue riding-coat. 

" Are ye coming? " he roared to the girl, and the wicked 
little bov. They took their places at his either side. He 
seized the younker with one hand ; crippled up the fingers 
of the other towards his month, and then issued with his 
" helpless orphans," from the miserable hut 

Outside its threshold he found Neddy Fennell, still 
closely studying himself and his actions ; and — 

" Take care of yourself, my bouchai, and keep out of my 
way," he growled. 

" Let you take care of yourself, and keep out of my way,* 
retorted Master Neddy. 

And, at a little distance, the boy followed him and his 
poor companions through the puzzle of the shower of 
houses, and then, through a scarcely less dirty suburb, into 
the town, pondering much as he trudged through the snow 
and the biting blast He had at length scrutinized, as far 
as was possible, the features of the object of his great 
wonder and detestation. And they did not much disap- 
point his notions beforehand, of what those of the hero of 
Nelly Garty's tale ought to have worn, They were such 
features, too, as well became the brutal fellow, whom he 
had seen tormenting and beating the children a few hours 
ago. But why he should have so tormented and beaten 
them, merely to have their hands and feces, and little 
limbs, scrubbed perfectly to his satisfaction, seemed a diffi- 
cult question to solve. The beggarman began, in the first 
considerable street of the town, an oratorical appeal to the 
public, in which those very little creatures were noticed in 
the most affectionate and touching terms ; and Neddy's 
difficulties increased : he could see no identity between the 
robber, who had been nearly twice walked to the gallows 9 
foot, and who, so very lately, had given proofs of the unal- 
tered scoundrelism of his nature, and the poor mendicant 
now before him, whom every one pitied and relieved, on 
account of his love and care of his little orphans. But er 
the appeal had been quite gone through he began to un- 
derstand the matter. The wretched man, who could not 
afford for himself or for them, anything like covering suf- 



FATHER CONNELL. 89 

flcient in the present perishing weather, still, it was evident 
to any observer, tried to perform, towards the innocents, 
some of the duties of a parent, and upon this conviction 
public sympathy could not mil to be aroused. 

" Avoch, see, cried the women as he passed along, "he's 
hardly able to keep a stitch on himself or them ; and yet, 
see how clane and dacent he has 'em, the cratures." 

His appeal must be transcribed. It was made up of 
short sentences, and published in a loud sonorous voice, 
which rose and fell, in oratorical cadence, with, it may be 
said, each separate verse. As he went on with it, his head 
turned from side to side ; his crippled hand and arm (the 
same winch had clutched and wielded the cudgel the night 
before) imperfectly gesticulated, in a very awful manner ; 
and all his features, even his eyes, so far as they could be 
read, through the veil of hair, expressed deep woe, and 
the veins of his neck swelled with the strength of his feel- 
ings- Here then follow the exact words of his petition, 
neither added to nor diminished : — 

" I was left with a motherless charge. 

" God help the motherless ! 

" I was left with a child six days ould. 

" I am a desolate man, the Lord pity me ! 

"It isn't by the words of the mouth, I tell ye— -look into 
my breast, an' look at aich side o' me ! 

" I was left, for a space ov nine weeks, sick, an' sore, an' 
lone, in a small wilderness ov a cottage. 

" The mother o' the childther was taken away a corpse 
from my side. 

" God in Heaven be merciful to the poor crature ! 

" I had no friend in the wide world, to succor myself or 
the childther. 

'* The Lord look down on the desolate ! 

" An' I come to spake out my hard case, to the feelin' 
hearts of the Christian people. 

" Good Christians, pity me ! 

" Pity the motherless charge ! Pity the forlorn father ! 
Ah, do, worthy tinther-hearted servants o' God !" 

Not many hours after hearing this piece of pathetic 
eloquence, Neddy Fennell was again prying into the 
secrets of Joan Flaherty's house. As nearly as possible 
the scene of the morning became repeated under his eyes. 



tO FATHER CONNELL. 

Some questions arose concerning a morsel of bread which 
the little girl had received, daring the day, as an alms. 
Indeed, while famishing with hunger during their miser* 
able perambulations, she had stealthily eaten it, and so at 
present it was not to be found in her little wallet The 
protector of the motherless charge seized, with his crippled 
hand, now again made quite straight, his dreaded cudgel, 
and began to belabor the poor child most heartily. But 
while so employed, a good lump of hardened clay, sud- 
denly smiting him on the side of the head, sent Robin 
Costigan staggering about the hovel; and ere he could 
recover from his astonishment and confusion, another mis- 
sile of the same material, but of greater size and weight, 
followed its predecessor, and actually brought him down. 
With one dash of his hands, the beggarman drew back 
to either side of his forehead and face, their curtain of 
matted grey locks, the better to enable him to discern his 
assailant ; and while in the act of doing so, and while he 
yet lay prostrate, Neddy Fennell at length beheld, dis- 
torted by rage and ferocity, a face which, to his dying day, 
he never forgot 

Their regards met. Neddy was now astride on the wall, 
kicking it with his heels as it were a restive horse, which 
he spurred against a detested enemy ; and his right arm 
was raised high, ready to discharge a third shot, and his 
very handsome boyish face glowed, and his brows frowned 
deeply over his flashing eyes, as he shouted out, "Yes, 
Costigan, I'm the very boy that did it I and if you beat 
that little girl again, I'll pelt the brains out of your rob- 
ber's skull ! — take this over again for a warning." 

The third bullet flew from his hands, but this time 
missed its billet. The next instant the beggarman was on 
his feet ; and before Neddy could re-arm himself, a swing- 
ing blow from the cudgel staggered him in his seat on the 
top of the old clay wall, which had supplied him with 
ammunition ; while a tug at one of his legs, made almost 
simultaneously with the blow, fairly dropped him undei 
her own roof, into Nelly Carty's arms, who had just re- 
turned from her day's quest 

"Ton misfortunate bit iv a boy," whispered Nelly, in 
great wrath and alarm, " d'ye want to get yourself an' all 
iv us murthered ?" 



FATHER CONNELL. 91 

She glanced towards the door, which she had left open. 
The beggarman came into them through it, as Neddy 
roared out louder than ever: — "I'll make the gallowsr- 
bird stop beating that little girl 1" 

The cudgel whizzed over his head, just missing it. Had 
it taken effect, with half the strength exercised by the 
herculean arm that wielded it, the boy must have fallen 
dead on the spot. Nelly Carty, pulling the hood of her 
doak quite over her face, so as to hide her terror-stricken 
features as well as she could, threw her arms round 
Neddy, standing between him and her old crony ; Bridget 
Mulrooney sprang to her assistance ; both women began 
to remonstrate and scold in their shrillest tones ; their 
poor lodgers in the inner den, though not well knowing 
what was going forward, screamed violently; while the 
penny-whistle squeak of old Joan Flaherty's lungs chimed 
in from some corner of her own dwelling. 

Still the intruder seemed bent on taking a fell revenge. 
He was tearing away the two potato-beggars from the boy, 
and his right hand and arm were gathering and knitting 
all their deadly strength for a better aimed blow of the 
cudgel, when another hand, and not a weak, although an 
old one, collared him from behind, and Father ConnelTs 
voice, almost for the first time breaking through its usual 
mild or grave cadence, demanded, while it over-mastered 
all the hideous noises around him, the causes of the affray. 

The expression of Costigan's face instantly and com- 
pletely changed. His set teeth widely separated — he 
gasped — his jaw dropped ; the murderer's cloud left his 
brow ; and then he turned his head over his shoulder, to 
observe the features of the new-comer ; and after one look 
at them, twisted, not without an effort, out of the old 

Eriest's gripe, the standing collar of his riding-coat, and 
astily retreated through the yet open doorway. 
It was a long time before Father Connell could obtain 
any clear information regarding the nature of the scene he 
nad just witnessed. Nelly Caity did not, by any means, 
wish to be candid. From Neddy Fennell he gained, how- 
ever, some useful evidence. He learned that the peison 
that he had just seen was the same he had once endeavored 
to prepare for a felon's death ; — and again questioning 
Nelly Carty, still closely, and more authoritatively, she, 



92 FATHER CONNELL. 

with great wringing of her hands, was compelled to admit 
the fact Neddy also fully explained the cause of the per- 
sonal quarrel between himself and the formidable robber ; 
and although his priest sternly reprehended him, it was 
not difficult to perceive, that he almost excused the boy's 
act of aggression, for the motive that had prompted it. 
He passed into the next cabin, Neddy Fennell attending 
at his heels. The beggarman was not to be seen ; but he 
saw the three wretched children, and he pitied them. He 
questioned the girL He asked where she came from ? — 
where she was born ? She could not telL — Who were her 
parents ? She did not know ; bat Darby Cooney — the 
name by which she had always known her tyrant — had 
often told her, while beating her, that she was no child of 
his; though, indeed, she had no remembrance of ever 
living with any one else but him. And the wicked boy 
had been given into her charge, about three years ago, 
and the infant a few months ago ; but where they came 
from, she could not tell, no more than if they had dropped 
down from the sky. 

It was with great difficulty that Father Connell obtained 
even this scanty information ; and when she had concluded, 
the poor child, her cheeks streaming tears, earnestly stipu- 
lated that Darby Cooney might not be told, " she had in- 
formed on him." 

"Ocht" she added, her fears increasing into passion, 
"he would kill me stone dead wi' the stick; och yea, he 
wouldn't lave a bit o' life in me." 

Father Connell asked her some questions on religions 
points] she had scarcely an idea on the subject The 
good man then contemplated her and the other children, 
in silent commiseration and thoughtfulness. His little 
favorite crept to his side, venturing in whispers to plead 
for his young protegee, and to hope that he was now for- 
given for having pelted the old robber from the top of the 
walL Our parish priest seized his hand, and although he 
did not still speak a word, but only squeezed it again and 
again, Neddy was satisfied with the answer. 

"I will be here early to-morrow morning, Neddy, please 
God, to meet this Darby Cooney, and to see what we can 
do for the poor children. Now I must go to your mother's 
bedside." 



FATHER CONHELL. 93 

After sitting a little while with Mrs. Fennell, her visiter 
informed her that better lodgings had been provided for 
her and her aunt, into which he would have them removed 
next morning. He then took his way homeward. 

As usual, his little squire saw him safe through the mys- 
teries of the potato-beggars' town. Returning to his lodg- 
ings, Neddy perceived the door of Joan Flaherty's abode 
still open, and ventured in. The girl stood up to meet 
him. 

"May a blessing be upon your road, good honest boy," 
she said, "for the pity you have to me ; no crature ever 
had pity for me afore." 

" What is your name, poor little girl?" 

"Mary Cooney." 

"And you're not the daughter of that rogue and ras- 
cal?" 

"Sure he says himself that Fm not, an' sore if I was, 
he wouldn't be so hard on me entirely." 

" And why don't you run away from him, and never go 
next or near him again ?" 

"Och ! och ! where in the world could I go to ?" 

" 111 give you half of my breakfast, and half of my din- 
ner ; and when I'm a big man, and have money, as my 
father used to have, 111 give you half of that, too." 

This very plausible and very practicable plan, seemed to 
open, for a moment, to the mind's vision of the poor list- 
ener, a new and dazzling vista of hope and happiness. 
Her beautiful eves glowed with momentary delight, and 
looked intently forward, as if she, even materially, enjoyed 
the fairy prospect. But suddenly all changed in that young 
face, and she moaned out : — 

"Och, my good and my tendher-hearted boy; but I 
couldn't hide anywhere from Darby Oooney — och, he 
knows where everybody is ; and he'd find me out if the 
earth covered me ; and if I thry'd to hide from him, it's 
then he'd murther me 1" 

"I wouldn't let him murder you, and Father Connell 
wouldn't let him murder you." 

"A&' och," she went on, suddenly clasping her hands 
and starting aside from her young champion — "if he kem 
back upon me now, an' found the childher not washed and 
put to bed, and the babby's cap not washed, an' myself not 



94 FATHER CONNELL. 

washed — och, och, it would be a sore night to me ! — an 9 you 
tare, would be the worst ov all ! Good-bye to you, tendher- 
hearted boy." She sprang back to him, threw her arms 
round his neck, and kissed him. "Don't stay here any 
longer— don't, don't come with me over the threshold— an' 
may the blessing o' the motherless an' the fatherless be in 
your road!" she ran into the hovel and shut the door. 
Neddy Fennell turned into his own resting-place, full of 
plans for the emancipation and future happiness of his new 
acquaintance. 

The next morning Father Connell came, according to his 
promise, to converse with Darby Cooney. But neither. 
Darby Cooney, nor any of his motherless charge were any- 
where to be found ; nor could the most minute inquiries 
supply the slightest information regarding the hour at 
which they had abandoned their lodgings, or the route they 
had afterwards pursued. 



CHAPTER XL 



To one side of the principal street of Father Connell's 
little city, and nearly at its termination, was a low, long 
house, having quite the appearance of a private residence 
-—except that its entrance door was always open, and yet it 
was an apothecary's establishment. It had no shop front 
— no huge bottles of tinted water, fit for not a single earthly 
purpose, ornamented its unbusiness-like window ; nor in 
the apartment assigned to its owner's professional occupa- 
tions, were there many of the usual indications of an 
apothecary's shop, nor indeed of a shop of any kind. And 
people said, that Dick Wresham, although depending 
exclusively on pestle and mortar for his support, was too 
much of a gentleman, to carry on his trade in anything like 
the common way. 

In his — what shall it be called? — hall of audience per- 
haps, there were five or six old mahogany parlor chairs, 
with very broad, flat, black-leather bottoms, secured at the 
front and sides with large, round-headed brass nails ; and 



FATHER CONNELL. 95 

the stone window-sills, on the outside of his long house, 
were worn into a peculiar smoothness and polish. And 
why are these two facts mentioned ? It will appear why. 

The proprietor of the medical mart was a thin-bodied, 
sharp-featured, active-minded, little man, with a malicious 
twinkle in his ferret eye, and a mischievous grin round his 
mouth. He wore black, except that his stockings were of 
grey worsted ; a long slender queue, perked out between 
his shoulders ; his hair was well pomatumed and powdered ; 
and abundance of powder also lay on the collar of his coat. 
And he must now put himself into action for us. 

It is still a bitter December morning, not a great many 
removed from that with which we have last had to do. 
Dicky Wresham runs to his open door, peeps up and down 
the street ; runs in again to his drugs, and out again in a 
few minutes, to take another peep. He evidently expects 
the arrival of some person or persons, and he is very anx- 
ious and fidgetty on the point And one by one the 
wished-for visiters arrive, and one by one, he greets them 
heartily. 

Are they customers? No: they are individuals who, 
every day in the year, come to polish the bottoms of the 
old black-leather chairs, within doors, if it be inclement 
weather ; or else the window-stools in the street, if it be 
fair weather ; and they come each to empty his budget of 
small gossip, or to have a similar one emptied into him ; or 
to join, open-mouthed, in scandal, not always of a harmless 
nature, or to make remarks on all passers-by in the streets ; 
or, in a word, idly to spend their idle time, in the best way 
they can possibly devise. So Dick Wresham has them 
almost all about him for the lay, at which he rubs his 
hands and looks fully happy — and he is so ; for, doubtless, 
a stock of capital gossip, and scurrility, and fun, is now 
laid in for him; and Dick's craving appetite for such 
mental food should be satisfied every morning as soon as 
ever he had powdered his head and coat collar. 

And this assemblage, in Dick's laboratory, was familiarly 
known, through the town, as "Dick Wresham's school." 
They also styled themselves " gentlemen ; " and Dick and 
many others admitted the title, though a good many people 
besides questioned whether the standard used by the little 
apothecary and his immediate friends, for measuring a 



96 FATTIER COXNELL. 

"gentleman w agreed, in all respects, with that adopted for 
the same purpose by " Ulster King-at-Arms." But how* 
ever this may be, the school has now assembled. All the 
scholars are, upon this particular morning, within doors, 
of course, the weather not permitting a meeting in the open 
air. Two of their number post themselves as sentinels of 
observation, face to face, against the jambs of the doorway, 
and their business is to look out for objects and subjects 
of commentary, among the simple people who pass by ; or 
haply (for the videttes are great wags) to beckon some one 
of the simplest among the simple into Dick Wresham's 
school-room, and there exercise some practical joke — that 
smallest and most country-townish way of pretending to 
wit. 

A few of Dick Wresham's school may just be pencilled in. 

Gaby M*Neary was one of them. He had begun life 
with, as he himself would beautifully express it, "a blue 
look-out ; " that is with little to recommend him, except a 
handsome person, and a good flow of red Protestant blood 
in his veins. These two qualities, however slender they 
might prove in other countries, gained him a rich enough 
wife in Ireland ; legacies from her relatives afterwards 
dropped in, so that he was now, at an advanced age, able 
to live " genteelly," that is, withont doing any one earthly 
thing, except to eat, drink, and sleep, and have his own 
way, right or wrong; and Dicky wresham accordingly 
wrote him down " gentleman." 

Gaby was tall and bulky, but stooped in his shoulders. 
He could not be said to have an ill-tempered faee ; but it 
had a domineering look, befitting a person of much im- 
portance in the world, both as to rank and religious creed ; 
and this was one of tne characteristics of what the papists 
of the time used to term a "Protestant face." 

Jack M'Carthy was another of the school; whilome a 

§ auger, but now retired on a pension and some money to 
oot He was a sturdy built, low sized "gentleman" of 
about sixty, with tremendous grey eyebrows, always knit 
together, and a huge projecting under lip. He seemed as 
if ever revolving some unpleasant subject; and Jack was 
said to have a " Protestant face" too ; that is, he looked as 
if he did not like a papist, and was therefore conscious 
that a papist could not like him. ^ 



FATHER CONNELL. 97 

And Kit Hunter was upon this morning at "school" 
also; and he possessed property sufficient, we will not 
stop to say exactly how obtained, to satisfy Dick Wresham 
of his pretensions to be admitted into his seminary. The 
wrinkles about Kit's mouth had formed themselves into a 
perpetual smile. He was known as the shadow of the 
great personage of the town, whether a Lord or a Baronet, 
shall not now be told. He constantly attended that great 
man's levee, was honored by being leant upon by him, 
whenever he flattered the streets by walking through them; 
he was always ready to run on his errands ; and to crown 
all his glory, frequently invited to dine with, and drink 
the choice old wines of the high, and for the present, 
mysterious personage. 

An easy-tempered, middle-aged man was Kit, with a 
great talent for picking up gossip of every kind, and for 
retailing it too ; for it may be fairly conceded that the 
sack of a news-gatherer gapes almost equally at both ends. 
In person he was tall, slight, thin, almost emaciated, and 
bent and weak in the hams ; and always dressed carefully 
and sleekly, in the best brushed clothes of the leading 
fashion of the day. 

After the sages here particularly noticed, there were two 
or three others of less interest ; the sentinels who filled 
the doorway were younger pupils, " gentlemen, bloods oi 
the city," roystering, swaggering blades ; and hoaxers or 
practical jokers by profession. 

The "school" has repeated some of its lessons for its 
master, and for each other, conned since they last assem- 
bled before him. Dick Wresham, occasionally eyeing a 
prescription, continues : — 

"Ah Kit, what about the old friar and his bell?" 

" Ay, Kit, my worthy/' echoed one of the sentinel wags, 
" tell us about the friar and his, belle — ha, ha, ha !" 

And the "ha! ha! ha!" ran through the whole "school" 
—for a sparkling and original witticism had been uttered. 

"Ay, joke away on it," said Gaby M'Neary — "but by 
Gog — " and he banged his stick across Dick Wresham's 
"genteel" and delicate subterfuge for a counter, "you'll 
soon have them friars devouring up the fat of the land 
again. Ha, 'tisn't ould times with them now; they're 
creeping out of their holes among us again — an honest 



M FATHER CONNBLL. 



can't walk the streets without being jostled by one of 
them." 

"And how divilish sleek the rascals look," sputtered 
Jack M'Carthy, knitting, wickedly, his awful, grey eye- 
brows. 

"Well, but Kit Hunter, tell us about Father Murphy," 
commanded Dick Wresham impatiently. 

" Why, you must know, he has built a kind of a little 
steeple on the gable of his chapel, and hung up a small 
bell in it ; and this he rings out for his mass, as sturdily 
as if there was no law to prevent it" 

"Ho!" grunted Gaby McNeary, "if that's not popish 
impudence, the diviTs in the the dice. Gog's blug! he 
continued in a kind of soliloquy, puckering his lips into a 
fierce snarl, as he stumped about the school-room, and 
punched his stick downwards at every step. 

" Well, Kit?" again asked Dick Wresham. 

"Well ; the dean was made acquainted with the matter, 
and requested to use his authority, in having the bell 
taken down, and so he called on Father Murphy for the 
purpose, The friar, you know is a big, bluff kind of an 
ould fellow — and hah ! he said to the dean — ' and cant't I 
have a bell to call my coachman, and my groom, and my 
footmen, and all my other man servants, and ould Alley, 
the cook, to their dinners— eh ? — ha I" 

Some laughed at Kit Hunter's anecdote; but Gaby 
M'Neary, and Jack M'Carthy, could only ejaculate their 
indignation at such a piece of audacious papistry. Kit 
Hunter went on. 

" ' You must take it down, my good sir,' said the dean. 

" ' Take it down, is it, after all the trouble I had putting 
it up? Hu! hul no, I won't take it down; but if you 
want it so much, there it is — and you may climb up, and 
take it down yourself —hu ! hu I ' " 

"And what did the dean say to this?" demanded Gaby 
M'Neary. 

"Why he could say nothing at all farther, for, after 
pointing up at the bell, the friar walked off as fast as he 
could/' 

Gaby and Jack now expressed a huger indignation than 
ever. Gaby, in particular, though not feeling half of the 
real asperity experienced by his friend Jack, burst forth in 



FATHER CONNELL. 99 

his might He imprecated, lie cursed, and he swore, he 
bellowed as he stumped about; and "the vagabonesl" he 
went on, "there isn't a friar, no nor a priest of 'em, that I 
wouldn't hunt out of the counthry, over again ! why they'll 
ride rough-shod over us, as they did before, by Gog! 
They walk the very middle stone of the street already — 
llur-an-ages!" 

"And here is one of them walking the middle stone 
of the street, this very moment," reported one of the sen- 
tinels. 

" Father Connell, no less— hat and wig, and all," added 
the other. 

"Elug-a-bounsF roared Gaby M'Neary, becoming al- 
most lachrymose in his wrath — "hunt them out of the 
country, did I say? no, but hang 'em all up, sky high, thai 
is what I meant to say!" 

" He is on one of his begging expedition^ to-day," again 
reported the faithful vidette. " Look there is Con Lough- 
nan handing him a note, nothing less — " 

Little Dickey Wresham raced to the door, thrust out his 
neck and head for a peep, and raced back again to his 
pestle and mortar. Tlie sentinels at the doorway whis- 
pered together, and as Father Connell passed them, they 
saluted him very ceremoniously, and invited him to enter 
the school-room — he did so. 

The persons among whom our parish priest now stood, 
seemed quite strangers to him. One of them, indeed, 
namely Gaby M'Neary, he might have recognised in a 
different light, had he been able distinctly to observe him ; 
but at his first appearance, Gaby had flung himself upon 
one of the black leather-bottom chairs ; and twisted it and 
himself facewise towards the wall 

Some of the other persons of the circle acted as follows. 
Kit Hunter prudently moved backwards into the shade ; 
Jack M'Carthy tried to smile, but it was a hideous attempt 
— aviciou8 donkey might equal it; and Dick Wresham 
grinned most maliciously; while, for the purpose of dis- 
guising the venemous mirth, he dretended to use his teeth 
m assisting his fingers to tie up a paper of drugs. 

It was surmised by one of the juvenile witlings, that 
Father Connell was out on a mission of charity. The old 
priest assented. 

8351PB 



100 FATHER CONXELL. 

Particulars of the case of distress which at present inter- 
ested him, were politely demanded. In the simplest and 
the fewest words possible he told his little tale of woe. 
Again he was solicited to name the parties, and he named 
them. 

"Ah, yes, sir," resumed the young " gentleman." "I 
might have guessed that it was for one of the fair portion 
of the creation your Reverence took so much trouMe this 
cold day." 

" And indeed it is to the credit of clergymen in general 
that they are such champions of the weaker sex," resumed 
his comrade. 

"I remember the little Widow Fennell right well," 
quoth Dick Wresham, " and a plump little bit of flesh she 
was, and must be to the present hour." 

At these words, to the surprise of all who caught the 
action, Gaby M'Neary suddenly turned his head over the 
back of his chair, and scowled very angrily at the 
speaker. 

" There certainly is some satisfaction, in bestowing char- 
ity on such a pretty little widow," continued the chief 
sentinel — "one of her smiles is good value for a guinea, 
any day — " and he took out of his waistcoat pocket a 
glittering coin, and with a face of much earnestness, placed 
it on the priests palm and closed the old man's fingers 
upon it 

Father Connell glanced, however, at the offering, and 
then reclosed his fingers upon it himself. The waggery 
and the sparkling wit went forward. 

" By my oath and conscience," said the really spiteful 
Jack McCarthy, "I'd give a leg of mutton and 'thrimmins' 
to any one that 'ud tache me the knack of making friends 
among the women, as the priests do." 

" Why, Father Connell might give you an insight," said 
another, " but nothing for nothing all the world over ; no 
money, no pathernosther — eh, Father Connell?" 

Gaby M'&eary did not now look round, but he seemed 
to grow very uneasy or very hot on his chair. 

"Father Connell is a spruce ould buck," cried little 
Dickv Wresham, " and there is no wonder that the women 
■hould be friendly to him." 



FATHER CONNELU 101 

"But how does he make the hat and wig go down with 
them?" resumed the brutal Jack M'Carthy. 

" Blur-an-ages-an-by-Gog!" exploded Gaby M'Neary, 
jumping up at the same time, and jostling forward to 
where Father Oonnell stood — " and," he continued during 
his progress, " and every kind of sweet damnation seize 
upon my soul, if I can stand it any longer, or if I will stand 
it any longer ! — give me your hand, Father Oonnell — how 
do you do, sir?" 

Father Oonnell did as he was bid, standing somewhat 
aghast, however, at the roaring approach of such a forty- 
horse oath engine. 

"Why, what are you at now, Gaby?" asked the princi- 
pal hoaxer — " you that swore, as no other man can swear 
but you — a little while ago, that you'd hang every rascally 
priest of them, sky high. 

"You lie, you whelp I" answered Gaby, "I never swore, 
nor said any such thing, you young rascal ! and you're all 
nothing but a pack of rascals— nothing else— to bring this 
good-hearted ould gentlemen in here, to scoff at him, and 
to insult him." 

"Well done, Gaby," shouted the second hoaxer, and he 
slapped old Gaby on the shoulder. 

"Do that again, ye hout* and 111 dust your puppy's 
jacket, while a dusting is good for it or you !" and he 
flourished his stick about him, at a rate that made his old 
friends jump out of his way ; while the only object he hit 
was the hat of the very person whose champion he now 
was, and this, with the violence of his unintended blow, 
flew some distance off its accustomed resting-place. But 
Gaby soon picked it up, replaced it on the apex of the wig, 
and then slapped it down with a force that betokened, in 
his own flitting apprehension, much friendly energy, and 
a liberal promise of chivalrous protection towards the 
wearer. 

"Come away, Father Oonnell, out of this blackguard 
place," he went on, passing the priest's arm through his, 
" come along, sir, come along, I tell you I" 

"My dear," said Father Oonnell, laying his hand on the 
arm of his doughty defender, " do not get angry, do not 
ourse or swear on my account ; these gentlemen have done 

• Aa*aaah*p. 



102 FATHER CONNELL. 

me no harm ; I wish I could say they had done thenur m 
any good; nor hate they been as successful in ridicm/ng 
me as they think ; neither my years, now nearly fourscore, 
nor my hat and wig have made me so very stupid as they 
suppose. As for the witty young gentleman who gave me 
this," and he held out the counterfeit guinea on his open 
palm, and then allowed it to drop on the floor at his foot— 
" I won't say God reward him, no, no ;" the old man shook 
his head, touched the brim of his hat, and looked upward 
— " the reward, if my poor prayer were heard, might be in 
proportion to the gift ; but I can, and I do say— God tor- 
give him." 

"Hah! take that, you dirty curs!" triumphed Gaby 
M<Neary, as he and Father Oonnell turned into ihe 
street. 

To the great surprise of the whole town, the pair were in 
a few minutes after seen parading the streets arm in aim, 
and begging of every one they mutually knew, a donation 
for the poor Fennells. Protestant and Catholic looked 
after them as they marched along ; and, agreeing in opimon 
for at least once in their lives, sagely remarked, that " win- 
ders would never cease." 

In the heat of his charitable enthusiasm — as much cne 
may venture to say, as in the heat of his wrath, against 
Dick Wrasham's "dirty curs" — Gaby's own contribution 
to Father Council's list was large, almost out of character. 
But this was not alL He led him to his own house, and 
there " made much of him ;" and over a hearty luncheon, 
and a glass of good wine, Gaby M'Neary requested and 
obtained a minute account of the former and the present 
situation of the poor family for whom he sought relief. 

To every word the old priest uttered, Gaby's only 
daughter was an attentive listener. This little girl may be 
called very lovely — very, very lovely. Her age was not 
more than ten years. No description of her face or per- 
son is about to follow ; but it is asserted over again that 
little Helen M'Neary was very, very lovely, and bright, 
laughing, joyous — a very sunburst of beauty, flashing over 
the freshness of life's almost break of dav. 

During the priest's statements, howaver. little Helen 
•bowed none of her usual brilliant joyonunesa. Her feat* 
area became gently sorrowful, and tears nturtfrj frpm hex 



FATHER CONNELU 103 

eyes. Father Oonnell took leave of his new friend. At 
the door of the house he felt his jock pulled, and turning 
round he saw this beautiful little being looking up earnestly 
at him, and moving her fingers in a mute request that he 
might bend down to her. He laid his open palm upon her 
shining hair — of the same color, by the way, as that of the 
poor little beggar girl — gazed in smiles, for a space, upon 
her glowing upturned features ; and muttered involuntarily 
— "may the Lord bless you, my little angel." 

She beckoned to him again, and he bent his ear to her lips. 

" I got this for a Christmas-box," she whispered, sliding 
half-a-guinea into Ids hand — "but will you give it, sir, 
along with the rest you have, to poor Mrs. Fennell, and 
her old aunt, and to poor little Neddy ? — Oh, you're hurt- 
ing me, sir!" she suddenly cried out, pained by Father 
ConnelTs ardent pressure of both her tiny hands in his. 
He relaxed his unconscious clasp ; but still held her tightly, 
and he still gazed at her, his lips working to keep in his 
emotion. 

" Helen ! Helen ! where are you, girl ?" bellowed out her 
father, descending the staircase. 

" Good-bye to you, sir," she continued, again endeavor- 
ing to extricate her fingers. 

"Blug-a-bouns! what's all this?" questioned her father, 
making his appearance. 

"Tour little daughter," answered Father Connell, "is a 
blessed child. She is beautiful to look Upon ; but her fresh 
young heart is more beautiful still. See— she has given 
me, for the poor widow, what was bestowed upon her these 
happy Christmas-times, to buy playthings and sweet things 
— and she is only a little girl still," — he inclined his head, 
and laid his cheek to Helen's — " I thought at first of giving 
back her little gift ; — and I thought too of bestowing upon 
her a Christmas-box, and a good one, out of my own pocket; 
but I won't do either." 

" Don't, don't," roared Gaby M'Neary, half crying., " Uug* 
an-ages !" 

" No : I will not ; no, my child, I will not, 111 leave it in 
the hands of your God to repay you for your charity. 
Here, sir — take your little daughter to vou, and kiss her, 
and be proud of her." He took up the child, placed her in 
her father's arms, and left the houses. 



104 FATHER CONNELL. 



CHAPTER XE 

Yxr another school-house is to be visited, and it will 
make the third presented in these pages, But monotony 
need not, therefore, be apprehended ; for, if Dick Wres- 
ham's school has been found unlike Father ConnelTs 
school — and there is little doubt but it has — that which 
must now be described will prove unlike either. 

And the "main street," is again to be recurred to. 
Jammed in between two mere modern houses with shop 
windows, there was in it a curious old structure, or rather 
a succession of very curious old structures, situated to the 
rear of this introductory one. It had a high parapeted 
front, over which arose a gable, very sharp-angled at top, 
and surmounted by a tall roundish stone chimney. 

A semicircular archway, gained by a few steps, ran 
through it from the street, and led into a small quadrangle, 
one side of which was formed by its own back, and the 
other three sides by similar old buildings; that side to 
your left being partially dilapidated. A second semicir- 
cular archway passed under the pile confronting you, as 
vou entered the enclosure from the street, and gave egress 
into a second, but larger quadrangle. Of this, the far or 
top side was composed of one range of an old edifice, still ; 
that behind you of the rear of the house that fronted you, 
in the lesser quadrangle, that to your right, of other ancient 
buildings entirely ruinous ; and that to your left, partly of 
a dead wall, partly of a shed, before which was a bench of 
mason-work, and partly of a little nook, containing some 
evergreens, and remarkable for affording place to a queer 
sentry-box kind of structure, built of solid stone. 

And now there was yet a third archway before you, but 
much narrower than the others, and very much darker, 
boring its way under the lower part of the structure facing 
you. In traversing it, your eye caught, to your right hand, 
doorways imperfectly filled up by old oak doors, half hang- 
ing off their old-times hinges, and leading into large, unoc- 
cupied, coal black chambers ; and when you emerged from 
it* the cheery daylight was again around you, in a third 
enclosed space, of which the most remarkable feature was 



FATHBB CONNELL. 105 

a long flight of wide stone steps, terminating in a sharply 
arched door, which led into an elevated garden. 

Why dwell on the features of the odd old place ? Has 
no one guessed ? Here, Father Connell put his adopted 
son to schooL Here was the scene of years of that boy's 
pains and pleasures, sports and tasks, tears and laughter — 
likings and dislikings — friendships — nay, of a stronger and 
a higher passion, which though conceived in mere boyhood, 
passed into his youthful prime, and afterwards swayed and 
shaped the fate, not only of himself, but alas ! of his aged 
protector. 

All the nooks and corners of the odd, old place, were 
all, all the playgrounds of him and his school-fellows. He 
will stop to this day, before the streetward archway, and 
look into the two quadrangles, until recollected pleasure 
becomes present pain. For as he looks, his mind's eye 
sees, flitting and jumping through the sunshine and the 
shade, with which they are chequered, the features and 
forms of those early mates ; and his ears seem to hear their 
shouts, and their shrill untirable gabble; until anon, he 
seems to distinguish the very accents of their voices, and 
even by that knows them from each other ; and at last they 
pipe out his own name, and he is sure what boys from time 
to time utter it ! And then, turning away from the old 
archway, he asks himself — what days have since been liko 
the days which his passing vision has just given him back? 
What hour of satiated passion, what hour of worldly suc- 
cess, has been worth one minute of the passionless, 
thoughtless pleasures, experienced within the intricacies 
and the quaintnesses of the odd, old place? 

And, as he plods along the streets of his native town, 
other questions and recollections come upon him. He calls 
to mind some of his fancies ; for instance, of the kind of old 
people, who must originally have inhabited the jumble of 
old structures — who were they? What did they there? 
What did they look like ? How were they dressed ? He 
did not know a bit at that time ; still he used to imagine 
them clad in long robes of black or dark grey, silently 
moving about their then silent little squares, or sitting 
Stock still on the bench in the larger one ; or gliding (not 
walking) up the long flight of stone steps to their primitive 
garden; (and what in the world used to grow in that 



106 FATHER CONNELL. 

garden?) or, mysteriously vanishing into the large, black- 
chambers, to be found to the right of the third archway. 

And the imps his fancy has just seen ! Their progress 
from childhood, or boyhood, into manhood! But Ned 
Fennell will insist upon this topic more at length in another 
place. For the passing instant, he can do little else than 
boast of all his old haunts of play and frolic. 

In the middle of the inner quadrangle, there used to be 
a roundish space, quite smooth, and well sanded over, 
while the rest of the yard around it was roughly payed — 
and could human foresight have contrived anything more 
appropriate, for the marble ring, and the pegtop ring ? In 
"hide and seek," where could the appointed seeker find 
such a retreat as the old stone sentry-box — the boys called 
it an old confessional — in which to turn away his head and 
eyes, until the other urchins should have concealed them* 
selves among some of the fantastic recesses around them r 
And where could leap-frog be played so well, as under the 
old archways ? — and if a sudden shower came on, how con- 
veniently they afforded shelter from it! To such of the 
boys as had courage for the undertaking, what places above 
ground, ay, or underground, so fit for enacting "the ghost, 9 ' 
as were the pandemonium retreats of the black chambers of 
the third archway ? Was there ever so luxurious a seat 
for a tired boy to cast himself upon, fanning his scarletted 
face with his hat, as that offered to him by the bench in 
the larger quadrangle, canopied over head by its two 
umbrageous sycamores, one at its either end ? Or, if a poor 
boy happened to play too much, and too long, and were 
summoned up to his task, without having conned a single 
word of it, what crumbling old walls under the sun could 
compare with those at the opposite side of the square, for 
supplying in perfection a weed called — locally at least— 
"Peniterry," to which the suddenly terrified idler might 
run in his need, grasping it hard and threateningly, and 
repeating the following " words of power : " 

" Peniterry. peniterry, that grows by the wall, 
Save me from a whipping, or I pull you roots and all." 

And there was a third sycamore, in a corner belonging to 
a thrush, who from year to year built her nest, and brought 
forth her young in it, and she was the best fed thrush in 



FATHER CORNELL. 107 

the world. Her nest lay almost on a level with one of the 
school-room windows — you could nearly touch her, by 
stretching out your arm from it — and outside this window 
projected a broken slate, constantly kept filled with various 
kinds of provisions, for her and her family. Her husband 
seemed to grow lazv under these circumstances. He would 
scarce ever leave home in quest of food, and, indeed, do 
little else than perch upon the very topmost bough over 
her head, and whistle to her all day long. As for herself, 
she seemed, out of her trustiness in her little purveyors, to 
live in a delightful state of happy quietude. Not a bit 
startled was she, or even put out, by all their whoopings 
and uproar in the yard below. Nay, she seemed to take a 
matronly interest in their studies too ; for the boys of the 
head class, during school-hours, could plainly see her sit- 
ting on her eggs, while they sat to their books or slates, 
and they would fancy that her little, round, diamonded eye, 
used to be watching them. 

Well The old house confronting you, as you entered 
the first quadrangle from the street, and the rear of which 
looked into the second quadrangle, was the old school- 
house. Passing its sharply arched doorway of stone, you 
entered a hall, floored with old black oak, and ascended a 
spiral staircase of black oak, coiling round an upright of 
black oak, and stepped into the school-room, floored with 
black oak, and divided by a thick partition of black oak 
from the master's bed-chamber ; in fact, all the partitions, 
all the doors, all the stairs, all the ceiling-beams — and 
ponderous things they were— down stairs, and up stairs, 
through the interior of the crude old edifice, were all, all 
old black oak, old black oak, nearly as hard as flint, and 
seemingly rough from the hatchet, too ; and the same was 
the case in the interiors of the other inhabitable portions 
of the concatenation of ancient buildings. 

Through the partition separating his bed-chamber from 
the school-room, the head of the seminary had bored a good 
many holes, nearly an inch in diameter, some straight- 
forward, some slantingly, to enable himself to peer into 
every corner of the study, before entering it each morning ; 
and this is to be kept in mind. At either end of the long 
apartment was a large square window, framed with stone, 
and, indeed, stone also in its principal divisions. Over 



108 FATHER COHffSLL. 

head ran the enormous beams of old oak, and in the spaces 
between them were monotonous flights, all in a row, and 
equally distant from each other, of monotonous angels, in 
stucco— the usual children's heads, with goose wings shoot- 
ing from under their ears ; and sometimes one or two of 
these angels became fallen angels, flapping down on clipped 
wings either upon the middle of the floor, or else upon the 
boys' heads, as they sat to their desks, and confusing them, 
and their books, and slates with fragments of stucco and 
mortar, rotten laths, and rusty nails. 

In a kind of recess, on the side of the school-room oppo- 
site to the boys' double desks, was an old table, flanked by 
a form, to which, at certain hours of the day, sat some half- 
dozen young girls, from six to ten years, who came up from 
the quaint old parlor below, under the care of the master's 
daughter, who therein superintended their education in in- 
ferior matters, to be occasionally delivered into his hands 
for more excelling instruction. 

The principal of this celebrated seminary wrote himself 
down in full, and in a precise, round hand, James Charles 
Buchmahon ; and his establishment as "the English Acad- 
emy ; — principal, we have called him — despotic monarch, 
we should have called him ; for he never had had more 
than one assistant, and the head of that one he broke 
before they had been many weeks together. 

And never were absolute monarchy, and deep searching 
scrutiny, more distinctly stamped and carved on any coun- 
tenance, than upon that of James Charles Buchmahon, 
master of the English Academy. And that countenance 
was long and of a soiled sallow color ; and the puckering 
of his orows and eyelids awful ; and the unblinking 
steadiness of his blueish grey eyes insufferable ; and the 
cold-blooded resoluteness of his marbly lips unrelaxable. 
At the lime we speak of him, James Charles Buchmahon 
might have been between fifty and sixty, but he wore we.L 
He was tall, with a good figure and remarkably well-turned 
limbs, "and he had the girt to know it," for in order not to 
hide a point of the beauty of those limbs from the world, 
he always arrayed them in very tight-fitting pantaloons, 
which reached down to his ankles. His coat and waist- 
ooat wore invariably black. A very small white muslin 
cravat, and a frill sticking out quite straight from his 



FATHER CONNELL. 109 

breast, occupied the space from his chin to his waist. And 
James Charles Buchmahon's hat was of cream-color 
beaver, high crowned, and broad-brimmed : and he even 
carried either a formidable walking-stick of stout oak, or 
else a substitute for it, made of five or six peeled switches, 
cunningly twisted together, and at one end loaded with 
lead. 

It has been hinted that Ned Fennell has promised us 
some further notice of a few of his former playmates ; the 
subjects over whom, in common with himself, the master 
of the English Academy held sway ; and this is the place 
into which again, in the teeth of our critical remonstrances, 
he beseechingly insists to be permitted to introduce his 
little hying picture-gallery. It is not quite waywardness, 
he says, which induces him to be so pertinacious. Admit- 
ting some yearning, for mere feeling's sake, to reproduce 
and record characters, once either dear or interesting to 
him, Ned will have it, that he can prove, by his faithful 
portraiture of their early bent, and its similarity with their 
eventual fortunes or fate, how true it is, that the sapling 
contains the full-grown tree ; — that " the child is father to 
the man." 



+•» 



CHAPTEB XTTT. 

Fibst, then, Ned presents his friend James Graham, his 
old, old friend— even to this very blessed day and hour, his 
old friend. 

James was an English boy — a curiosity of course to the 
whole school; a small-boned, wiry little fellow, and not 
remarkable for first-rate talent. But he was remarkable 
for, perhaps, a still better kind of talent — that, namely, 
of untiring industry and application, which, in the end, 
enabled him to sweep out of his way all scholastic difficul- 
ties. And even in those early days of his life, James 
Graham had prudence and foresight, ay, and thrift enough, 
for forty years of age. In everything that concerned him 
he went steadily on, looking neither to the right nor to the 



110 FATHER CONNELL. 

left, by the shortest road to his object After school wag 
dismissed, and when almost every other boy loitered to 
play, James would race home as fast as he could, to con 
his tasks for the following morning ; and sometimes, to bo 
sure, some of his classmates, after having worked for the 
purpose, like mill horses, an hour or so, would succeed in 
putting him down in his class ; but, after that, it behoved 
them to be watchful and continuously industrious ; for if 
they were not, little lank James Graham, who was always 
watchful, always industrious, and always prepared, would 
be sure to step up again. James's father resided in the 
country; while he boarded and lodged in an humble, 
respectable family, in the town. He was allowed a certain 
weekly sum for what his friends considered necessary 
expenses, apart from his boarding and lodging. But out 
of this sum, limited, of course, as it was, James contrived 
to save money for the future — absolutely for the future, 
almost in the full meaning of the word. Partly in the 
following manner. 

Pending from small nails inside his trunk — Ned Fennell 
often saw the arrangement — were little cotton bags, one 
containing half-pence, another penny-pieces, another five- 
penny silver pieces, another ten-penny silver pieces, 
another half-crowns, another whole crowns, and the last 
golden guineas, or else pound-notes. And when his half- 
pence amounted to penny-pieces, he would transfer them 
in that shape to the next little bag ; and when that con- 
tained something above five-penny pieces he would confirm 
them into the smallest silver coin ; and so on and on he 
went in rotation, through all his little satchels, until finally 
half-pence, Ac. &c, merged into the guinea or the pound- 
note. 

But though thus saving, he did not hoard like a miser, — 
a title given to him by commonplace observers at school, 
whose chance pence used to " burn their pockets," as they 
themselves admitted, until they threw them away upon 
the purchase of some unnecessary toy or sweet-thing. 
From James's wealth first resulted a full though miniature 
library of " the British classics ;" and having since carried 
into more active life, and even into the mighty competition 
of the city of cities, matured and confirmed, his early 
school-boy characteristics, it is many years since he has 



FATHER CONNELL. Ill 

reaped the solid advantages which, when almost a child, 
they assuredly promised to him. 

"Dear James!" adds Ned Fennell, "I do not yet well 
know why so perfect a character as yourself ever could like, - 
or love a harum-scarum fellow, like what I then mas ; and 
yet you did — and some of my school cronies, along with 
me ; ay, and often made us the better of your little pocket 
library too. To be sure they and I always used to fit your 
boxing battles for you, at any odds against all your gibing 
or cowardly assailants ; and though you were not a frolic- 
some boy, you were a mirthful one ; and at last, we could 
often make you laugh heartily, in your queer, English way, 
at our queer Irish fun — ay, and now and then join in it 
too, under sufficient protection; for your frame, dear James, 
was not strong enough for all the haps of school-boy ad- 
venture and warfare ; still I do not know how it was that 
you loved us, and to this day do love us so well ; except 
indeed, my conjecture be right, that your good nature was 
equal to your other good qualities." 

George Booth very little resembled James Graham. He 
was the biggest and tallest boy in the school. In fact he 
was eighteen or nineteen — and quite a giant compared with 
every other boy around him. Yet he never could acquire 
enough to entitle him to a place in the head class, and so 
was always a member of some inferior one, where he tow- 
ered above his companions — very little fellows indeed — like 
Gulliver among the Lilliputions. Still it was in stature 
only that he surpassed even these — ay, or even equalled 
them. He was always at the tail of his class— or, as the 
little people termed it, " Paddy last," and as a matter of 
consequence, George Booth wore, nearly from morning to 
night, the idler's cap — a curious head-gear enough, and of 
such a height, as to make George seem nearly twice as tall 
as he really was. 

But all this seemed to give George very little trouble. 
Day after day, he bore, with a stolid, un wincing endurance, 
his coronation as monarch of dunces, and the sore humili- 
ations, scoffs, and insults resulting therefi-om. In fact, 
he seemed to have made up his mind, that he had been 
sent to school for the purpose, and for no other, of wear- 
ing the idler's cap; and as he plodded home every evening, 
George used to be heavily good-humored and jocose, in 



112 FATHER CONKELL. 

Ais own peculiar way, as if he felt convinced, that he had 
gone through his day's duty with consistent credit to 
himself. 

Before school broke up, each day, all who could tack 
words of two syllables together, stood in a semicircle round 
the room, first, second, third, or fourth classes as it might 
be. Upon these occasions, if a boy of an inferior class 
spelt correctly a word, which his neighbor in a higher one 
had "missod, M James Charles Buchmahon's discipline to 
meet the case was rather singular. As no member of the 
third class, suppose, could take the place of one of the sec- 
ond class, he was entitled, as an equivalent triumph over 
the dunce of the moment, to seize his nose between his 
right finger and thumb, and so lead him round the school- 
room. Now it may be believed, that George Booth, very 
often, subjected his organ of smell to such vue usage. But 
in the contrivances of the little fellow — scarce higher than 
George's knee — to lay hold on George's nose, much of the 
interest of the scene consisted. From some oiliness of 
surface, or else fleshy elasticity, peculiar to it, the feature 
was very slippery, so that when the tiny boy, helped by a 
good jump upwards, succeeded in catching it, it would sup, 
over and over, through his fingers, until James Charles 
Bachmahon, to end the proceeding, would, in the calmest 
but most authoritative tone, direct George Booth to bend 
himself half double, so as that his countenance might come 
within reach of the pigmy aspirant; and George would 
quietly obey, and then be led about, amid the laughter and 
snouts of all the lookers-on ; and vet, when he was again 
allowed to stand upright in his class, neither shame, nor 
sorrow, nor excitement could be traced in his pale, fat 
countenance. And so far George's character seemed legi- 
ble enough. Blockheadism and insensibility to disgrace 
very fairly go together. But there were some points about 
him which no human being, not even James Charles Buch- 
mahon, could comprehend: certain dull, muddy, and it 
must have been unintended quiddities, laboring, like asth- 
matic lungs, in the recesses of his brain — or rather of 
whatever it was which stood in the place of brains to him 
For instance, he would now and then be imaginative, for- 
sooth ; but we cannot venture, no more than James Charles 
Buchmahon could, to define these preoiou; portions of 



FATHER CONffflLL. 115 

George's mental existence or consciousness. An illustration 
of them in facts, shall, however, be attempted. 

As if beginning to grow a little tired of performing his 
daily duty, under the edifice of the idler's cap, George, one 
sunny autumn morning, after breakfast, took a stroll into 
the country, instead of going back to the English Acad- 
emy ; and all that day he was not to be heard of until 
hunger at last drove him home to his father's house. 

And next day, he took his place as " Paddy last" in his 
class, apparently as undisturbed as if there were no reckon- 
ing in store for him ; or as if there had been in existence 
no such man as James Charles Buchmahon, master of the 
English Academy ; and for a time George seemed perfectly 
right 

A good portion of the day wore on, George sat looking 
down on nis book, his mouth, as well as his eyes, wide 
open, as if he were wondering at some crabbed Chinese 
manuscript. James Charles Buchmahon, after hearing 
many classes in rotation, stood, according to invariable 
custom, before his magisterial desk, scraping, and paring, 
and splitting, and nibbing pens, and placing them in most 
formal rows upon its outer ledge. The boys were all 
engaged, or seemingly so, in conning fresh tasks, until the 
pens should be quite ready to enable them to engage in 
writing their copies. During his progress of scraping and 
so on, James Charles Buchmahon, looking over his spec- 
tacles, and under his eyebrows, sent his searching glances 
round and round the room, nay, from each individual boy 
to the other. There was almost dead silence, as was usual 
in the school-room at this time every day, when the words 
" George Booth," pronounced in the slowest and most deep 
and solemn manner, by James Charles Buchmahon, sound- 
ed through the stilly school-room. George Booth looked 
in the well-known direction of the summoner — his misera- 
ble features suddenly jerking themselves, as it were, from 
their expression of inane stupidity into contortions and 
twistings of a horrible kind; and his terrified glance 
informed him that the fore-finger of a certain right hand 
was slowly beckoning him up to the judgment-seat. The 
fore-doomed wretch arose and advanced — now gulping 
down something, every other instant, as if he were vainly 



114 FATHER CONVELL. 

endeavoring to swallow back again the sickening fears thai 
babbled np from his heart 

"George Booth, you were yesterday absent from the 
English Academy." 

"Yes, sir," (gulp). 

"And pray where did you spend the day, George 
Booth?" 

" In Sir John's wood, sir, picking nuts." 

"Humph!" James Charles Buchmahon interrupted 
himself in his process of mending the pens, and stared 
straight forward, into poor George's blinking, pig's eyes, 
as if seriously endeavoring to make him out. The confer- 
ence was resumed. 

"Very good! And pray, Mr. George Booth, at whose 
suggestion did you go to Sir John's wood, to pick nuts ?" 

"At — M (a great gulp — another, and another) "at 
Satan's, sir.' 

"At whose r 

"Satan's, sir." 

James Charles Buchmahon now laid down the pen-knife, 
and placed the pen beside it, and there was another look 
into George's eyes, and through and through them, until 
it could almost be seen coming out at the back of his 
akulL 

" Satan's, you say, sir r" 

"Yes, sir/' 

" Will you be good enough, Mister George Booth, to say 
also in what manner Satan and you happened to inter- 
change words on the subject?" 

"Sir?" 

"Where did you meet Satan, Mr. George Booth?" 

"I saw him, sir, up—" George became at fault, and 
swallowed the air more violently wan ever. 

" Up where, pray ?" 

" Up — up in the clouds, sir — at the top of Meeting-House 
Lane, the land that led directly from his own street into 
the country. 

"Very good, again, sir. And pray what kind of person 
is Satan? 9 

"He's— just — about your size, sir," and George bobbed 
his head, as if the confession he had made required some- 
thing like an apologetic bow ; wiile James Charles Buch- 



FATHER CONKELL. 115 

snahon deliberately raised his cream-colored hat from his 
head, bowed very formally and politely in his torn, and 
then replaced his beaver. But ohl even George Booth 
*ould comprehend that this excessive politeness boded him 
no good. 

"Well, sir, about my size, you say : will you please to 
favor me with a more detailed description ? Was there 
any further likeness ?" 

"No, sir," George hastened to aver — "No, 'pon my 
word and credit, sir!" 

" Well, sir— go on with your description." 

" He was black, sir — and he had horns and the tail, sir ; 
—and he had hoofs on him, sir, instead of shoes." 

" I — see. Well, what words did he address to you ?" 

"'George/ says he" — (gulp). 

"Well sir?" 

" 'George,' says he, 'don't go to school to the Tfoglfrh 
Academy to-day,' says ha" 

"Well?" 

"'But go out to Sir John's wood,' says he, 'and pick 
nuts,' says he — ' there's the best nuts in the whole country 
there,' says he." 

" Any other conversation between you, sir f* 

"No, sir." 

During the last part of the catechism, James Charles 
Buchmahon had advanced a step, and now, with one blow, 
the unhappy being was stretched at full length upon the 
old oaken floor, which shook under him, as he roared like 
a bull-calf. 

This was, indeed, an unusual proceeding on the part of 
the systematic master of the English Academy, but it will 
be recollected that there was no boy in the school of suffi- 
cient years or strength to bear George Booth's weight 
upon his shoulders, so that George might have had the 
advantage of receiving ideas from the fangs of the cat-o- 
nine-tails; while in the apprehension — or rather in the 
momentary fancy of James Charles Buchmahon, for, to 
this hour, even he has not been able to arrive at certainly 
upon the point — some punishment became indispensable 
for George's attempt to enact the mere idiot. 

And George Booth, from that day to this, through all 
the progress and changes of advanced life, has remained 



116 FATHER CONNELL. 

"last in his class," and seems quite satisfied with his 
position. 

It is to be added, however, that very, very strange to 
say, after having become married, and after having swelled 
into a truly Fafotaff shape, George, at the appointment of 
his wife, has turned schoolmaster himself; for she keeps 
a seminary, in which children are taught the first rude 
combinations of their alphabet; and he perhaps feels a 
re-acting pleasure in exercising his late-come power of 
torturing the poor little animals into a comprehension of 
a process which he himself could never understand. 

Tommy Palmer comes next ; he is called Tommy rather 
than Thomas, because he had been always so called in the 
old school-house, the sound of the word seeming more 
expressive of his character. 

Tommy can scarce be recollected as racing about at play- 
hoxir, with the general throng, or as ever joining in a game 
of ball, or top, or of marbles. Neither was he ever at the 
head of his class, though by no means often at the tail of it 
And yet he did not want power of body or of intellect, 
either for play or for study ; he was only always ashamed 
of trying to compete with anybody in any thing. • Mauvaise 
konte was the devil that beset him. He would blush sud- 
denly, to the very top of his forehead, if abruptly spoken 
to, on the most indifferent subject ; and if once he made a 
slip, in repeating his lesson, Tommy became so confound- 
ed that any attempt to mend the matter only plunged 
him, head over ears, into the most helpless state of con- 
fusion. 

Once, while standing up in his class, Tommy was reading 
the anecdote in Sterne's Sentimental Journey, which gives 
an account of a French peasant's supper, and of a succeed- 
ing dance, before engaging in which, the young people 
took off their "sabots or wooden shoes." Tom read out 
very distinctly, "their sabots or wooden dishea" 

"Wooden wha-at?" questioned James Charles Buoh- 
mahon. 

" Wooden dishes, sir," repeated Tommy Palmer. 

" Look at it, if you please, dearee." Tommy knew, as so 
did all the other boys, that the term "dearee," meant any- 
thing on earth but kindness. 

But he looked on the book with the most intense anxiety, 



FATHER CONNELL. 117 

while James Charles looked him with the fall power of his 
large, frozen, blue eye. 

"Well— dearee? ,r 

" Wooden dishes/ 9 again read out poor Tommy Palmer. 

" Open your eyes, pet, and try it again/' 

Taking the command literally, he elevated his eyebrows 
to their utmost stretch, and strained his eyes till their balls 
seemed ready to fall out; still, he could absolutely see 
nothing on the page but wooden dishes. James Charles 
Buchmahon advanced with the cat-o'-nine-tails, and the 
poor fellow felt her claws on the backs of his hands, on his 
head, and about his legs; still and still, "wooden shoes," 
as plain as the printer could print the words, were, to his 
vision, nothing but " wooden dishes." 

Many years afterwards, Tommy Palmer was met by an 
old school-fellow in the throng of the great metropolis. 
His father had procured for him a situation in a government 
office. His old friend encountered him, mid the roar and 
clatter of Fleet Street, and cordially and suddenly ad- 
dressed him, holding out his hand. Tommy stepped back ; 
staring, blushing, stammering, and wringing his fingers. 
In fact, to London he had carried — that excellent market 
for disposing of it — his whole stock of mauvaise horde, 
being about twenty-five years of age at that time ; and, in 
his new position, on he went, blushing and stammering, 
and calling "wooden shoes" "wooden dishes," until, 
although no dunce, he was returned on his father's hands, 
with the character of having been found unfit for the dis- 
charge of a duty which any dunce could have got through. 

Mick Hanlon was, at thirteen, the bully of the school, — 
but nothing else. Not that he wanted capacity for obtain- 
ing scholastic distinction, but that his ambition always 
aimed at the "bad eminence" surrendered to him. He 
was a boy of low stature for his years, with a fierce eye, 
a fleshy, out-curled defying lip, and a manner always over- 
bearing. His shoulders were broad enough for a person 
six inches taller; his arms long, and his nether limbs 
muscular and hard. In running, in leaping, in wrestling, 
in boxing, Mick had no rival. — Except a few who kept 
aloof from him, he brought every boy in the school to ac- 
knowledge his absolute supremacy, and his slaves submit- 
ted to him in mingled terror and admiration. Having 



118 FATHER CONNELL. 

thrashed into submission any one who dared to dispute his 
rule, he would next thrash, just as soundly, any one who 
even presumed "to look crooked" at his newly made 



Such was Mick at thirteen. At about two-and-twenty, 
after having, on a St. Patrick's-day, "in the evening," 
overwhelmed, at the head of a gang of youthful worship- 
pers of the saint, the whole city constabulary, who were 
about the streets to keep peace and order, Mick next 
charged a guard of soldiers, who were coming to supply 
their place, and died on the point of one of their bayonets 
— the weapon, in his tiger spring forward and upward, 
having directly entered the young oravo's heart 

And there was Joe White, who, when directed, in com- 
mon with his classmates, to tack two lines of poetry to the 
end of a prose theme, produced, after days of effort — 

u Joe White, my hand and pen 
Will be good, but God knows when." 

And Joe died, prematurely, an ensign in a militia regi- 
ment — the butt and the sot of its mess. 

And upon the same occasion, Joe's constant crony, John 
Arran, rivalled him in a distich — 

" Sticks and stones. 
And dead men's bones." 

And John, refusing to be sent to college, and afterwards 
placed in a liberal profession, upon leaving the English 
Academy, is now only a hosier — and a hosier of no great 
parts either. 

It may be added, that a third aspirant for the poetic 
wreath, Keeran Fitzgerald, who would be original, pro- 
duced the following admirable couplet — 

" It's a very fine thing, for a boy to follow, 
The tune of the harp, that's played by Apollo." 

And that Keeran, daring his whole life afterwards, was, 
indeed, very original in every respect, with, however, about 
as much claim to eminence, or common sense, in his 
originality, as may be found in the lines, for which posterity 
are indebted to him alone. 
And in the English Academy, there were two or three 



FATHSK CONNELL. 119 

very dirty fellows — dirty in their persons and attire, as well 
as in their minds and sensations — dirty fellows inside as 
well as outside ; — and dirty fellows of exactly the same 
description they continue to be to this very hour. 

And mean boys that have only grown into mean middle- 
aged men. And generous boys, who at five-and-forty, are 
still generous. And gentlemanlike boys who, through their 
whole after-lives, have always been gentlemanly. And all 
the boys who have been "Paddy lasts" in the English 
Academy, are "Paddy lasts " in the world. And the great 
majority of its pupils were content with middle places in 
their class — and farther than middle places they have 
never got into in society. 

And very few indeed, of all that miniature crowd, struck 
out for real fame or eminence in any way — but it is a grate- 
ful and a gracious duty to add, that they who did so, in 
verity and from the heart, have since reached the smiling 
shore of their boyhood's ambition : not one of them, at all 
events, has been drowned in his bold struggle to attain 
it. 



••» 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Soionum even the redoubtable James Charles Buch- 
mahon, master of the English Academy, used ta indulge in 
a social glass after dinner — nay, after supper, too, with a 
few select frimds ; and the following day, was sure to re- 
main longer than was his wont, in his bed-chamber. By 
some means or other, the young gentlemen of his seminary 
were scarcely ever ignorant of the recurrences of such 
evenings ; an<? consequently, for an hour or so, upon tha 
mornings that mcceeded them, the school-room of the 
English Academy used to be very unusually relaxed in dis- 
cipline. It was, indeed, rather a venturesome thing, even 
with the temptation mentioned, to utter a loud breath, or 
for a moment vacate a seat, when, as will be remembered, 
the young students were divided from the awful bedroom 
by an oak plank, solely ; to say nothing of the spy-holes 





120 FATHER CONNELL. 

which James Charles Buohmahon had bored through the 
old partition. 

It is evident, however, to the meanest capacity — and 
even George Booth quite understood the matter — that if 
the -spy-holes were good &>? the master's espionage upon 
the boys, they were just as good for the espionage of the 
boys upon the master — and, indeed, they were as often 
used one way as the other. Almost every morning in the 
year, reconnoitering parties were appointed from the first 
and second classes, wno, with the help of those spy-holes, 
and their own eyes, telegraphed through the school the 
most minute proceeding of James Charles, from the instant 
he gave the first stir in his bed, until he laid his hand on 
the door-handle, to pass out to begin his duties for the 
day; and it need not be added, that upon the especial 
occasions of stolen enjoyment alluded to, our young 
acquaintances were most particularly watchfuL It is, then, 
one of these half-holiday mornings before breakfast. The 
school abounds with fun and gambol, Neddy Fennell being 
one of the greatest, if not the very greatest truant among 
all his compeers. James Charles has been sleeping later 
than ever was known before; and his subjects, believing 
that he must have been very drunk indeed the previous 
night, happily conjecture that he may not waken time 
enough for the morning lessons — nay, nor for the afternoon 
lessons — nay, that under Providence he may never waken 
at alL 

But a change soon occurred in Neddy FennelTs sportive 
idling. 

Mention has been made of some very dirty fellows in 
the English Academy. They were in their own way jocose 
fellows, too, particularly upon this memorable morning. 
They had prepared a little blank paper book, and written 
upon each of its pages words that betokened, they said, a 
future fortune of some kind or other, to any or everybody 
who, by insinuating a pin between two of its leaves, should 
cause the mystic volume to unfold. The device was not a 
very original one in the school; and when practised by 
boys of anything like neatness of mind, produced much 
harmless fun. But in their hands the simple plaything, 
from the nature of the matter they had scribbled through 
it* degenerated, of course, merely into a vehicle of nastiness. 



FATHER CONNKLL. 121 

Neddy Fennell passed them after they had just offended 
— ay, and abashed to the very crown of his head. Tommy 
Palmer, by inducing him to read his future destiny ; our 
little friend could also see that James Graham's eyes were 
fixed on the dirty fellows with deep indignation. They en- 
joyed, however, the success of their joint invention in fits 
of smothered laughter; and he overheard them arrange to 
have " rare sport " among the girls at the other side of the 
room, so soon as they should come up from the parlor to 
receive their morning lessons at the hands of James Charles 
Buchmahon. He started, reddened, and said, " I'll try my 
fortune too." 

They held the book of prophecy to him. He divided its 
leaves in the usual manner, and read something very like 
what he had expected. He turned over some more of its 
leaves, and became satisfied of the nature of all its contents. 
Just then, the young girl sentered the school-room, chape- 
roned by their mistress as far as the door. Neddy glanced 
towards one of the little troop, and his blood boiled. 

"You shall never take this fortune-book to the other 
side of the room, you blackguards," said Neddy, 

"An' wholl hinder us? asked they. 

" 111 hinder you," he replied, and he put the book into 
one of the side pockets of his jacket. 

There was a remonstrance, and then a pulling and drag- 
ging scuffle, and at last a boxing-match; the two dirty 
fellows, now even more cowardly than they were dirty, 
falling together upon one litte boy, much their inferior in 
years, height, weight, and strength, while he, nothing 
daunted, jumped about them, rolling his little fists round 
each other, making a good hit whenever he could, and 
taking all their heavy punishment like a Trojan. But he 
could not fail having the worst of it. His lips and nose 
were bruised, and spouted with blood ; his left eye became 
unwillingly half shut up, and he staggered often, and was 
dean knocked down at last 

A little scream came from the girl's table, and at the 
same moment one of the dirty fellows said, " The master is 
coming out" 

" Wait till I see," said Neddy, " and if he is not, I'll come 
back to you." 

He ran round the long desk, and was just applying his 



122 FATHER CONNELL. 

eye — Iris only available one— to one of the spy-holes, when, 
ye gods! — another eye, a well-known, large, grey, bluish 
eye, a cold, shiny, white and bine delft eye, was in the act 
of doing the same thing at the other side of the anger- 
hole. 

Neddy's first impulse was, of coarse, to start back in 
terror; but the next instant, he stuck his own eye as closely 
as ever he could, into the opening, shrewdly judging, that 
such a proceeding was the only one which could fonder his 
opponent from noting and ascertaining his personal iden- 
tity. And now it became a real trial of skill and endurance 
between the two eyes ; but, oh! the horrors of the ordeal 
that Neddy had to endure ! Sometimes, the large greyish 
blue eye would withdraw itself about the fourth part of an 
inch, from its own side of the partition, as if to admit light 
enough into the orifice, to enable it to mark the rival orb, 
and connect it with its owner ; and then, the cold, freezy 
scintillations which shot from it curdled his very blood! 
Sometimes it would adhere as closely to its end of the 
hole, as did Neddy's at the other end ; and then all was 
darkness to Neddy's vision — but he thought the fringes of 
the two eyelids touched! and his trembling limbs scarce 
supported him. He winked, and blinked, and so did the 
antagonist organ, and then he became assured that the 
opposing eyelashes absolutely intertangled, and felt as if 
his own optic was to be drawn out of his head. Mental 
delusion almost possessed him. The cold, greyish blue eve 
seemed to become self-irradiated, and to swell into the 
compass of a shining crown-piece, while it darted into his 
rays of excrutiating light. Still, however, he courageously 
held on, until at last, James Charles Buchmahon gave up 
the contest, and withdrew towards his bed-room door; 
upon which Neddy hastened to his place at his desk, but 
not before he had ascertained by a glance across the room, 
that the two dirty fellows, having filched the fortune-book 
from his pocket during his late trepidation, were in the act 
of introducing it to the notice of the little dames, who sat 
to the old table in the recess. In fact, the alarm had been 
given by one of the dirty fellows, that " the master wait 
coming, was but a ruse to send Neddy to the spy-hole, in 
order to enable himself the more easily to recover his pre- 
cious property ; and this was now evident, from the two 



FATHER CONNELL. . 123 

friends being seen, without the least apprehension of the 
approach of that said master, endeavoring, in high glee, 
to impart a portion of their own nastiness to the pure 
little hearts and minds before them. Neddy had scarcely 
resumed his seat, when James Charles entered the school- 
room, and Neddy's eyes, or rather eye, fastened on his 
book. Almost at the same moment, the little voice — Ned- 
dy knew it well — which had before uttered a little scream, 
broke into a sudden fit of crying. Neddy again glanced 
at the girl's table. The child who was crying, had just 
flung into the middle of the room the atrocious fortune- 
book ; and he was about to vault across the desk a second 
time, to possess himself of the evidence of blackguardism, 
when James Charles Buchmahon saved him the trouble, by 
picking it up himself. 

The two detected dirty fellows were slinking to their 
places. " Have the goodness to stand where ye are, gen- 
tlemen," entreated James Charles Buchmahon. They stood 
stock still before him. He sat down to his desk, put oh 
his spectacles, and deliberately began to read the fortune- 
book. 

In a few seconds he suddenly stopped reading, drew hi* 
chair smartly back from his desk, raised his hands and 
eyes, and then screwed the latter into those of the base cul- 
prits ; he resumed his studies, again pushed back from the 
desk, again made a silent appeal upwards, and again as 
silently told the two dirty fellows what he thought of their 
playful device, and of themselves, and what they had to 
expect for their cleverness. Having quite finished the rare 
volume, he stood up, and beckoned them towards him. 

They came. He held it open in his hand, before their 
eves, pointed to it, and uttered the one word, " read." He 
then pointed to the girls' table, tapped the now closed book 
with his fore-finger ; slowly opened his desk, slowly de- 
posited therein the "sybilline leaves," and uttered another 
monosyllable — " kneeL" 

The despairing blackguards knelt 

"No!" interrupted James Charles Buchmahon, witti 
great and severe dignity, stepping back from them,—" I 
was wrong ; do not kneel ; go on a&fours ; prop yourselves 
on your knees and hatids together, and remain m that posi- 
tion ; I will explain why to you, anon." 



124 FATHER gONNELL. 

Again they obeyed him, their dirty faces growing pallid 
as death, and their dirty hearts quailing with an undefina* 
bio fear and horror at this unprecedented proceeding. 

James Charles Buchmahon again returned to the desk, 
now standing upright before it, however. Very slowly and 
solemnly he next drew out his pocket-handkerchief, used 
it — and what a quavering, trumpet sound there then was ! — 
folded and rolled it up into a round hardish lump, held it 
in both hands tightly, bent his head over it, and began 
rubbing across it, from side to side, the base of his very 
broad-backed and hooked nose. Great awe fell upon his 
subjects, big and little. The process described, — which 
they used to call, " sharpening his beak," was one which, 
by experience, they well knew betokened the approach of 
some terrific catastrophe ; while they were also very well 
aware that, during the sharpening of the beak, the two 
bluish grey eyes were scowling round, from one to another 
of them — as before remarked, under their proper brows, 
and over their proper spectacles. 

The beak was sharpened. The pocket-handkerchief waa 
unfolded from its sphere-like form, shaken, and put up. 
James Charles Buchmahon then produced before himself a 
horn snuff-box, of his own manufacture ; tapped it often ; 
gravely took off its lid ; dipped deep his finger and thumb 
into its pungent contents ; put on its lid ; returned it into 
his waistcoat-pocket, sniffed up, in a long, long-drawn fining 
about half of the huge pinch he had abstracted from it, and 
then he uttered three words more. 

" Master Edmund Fennell!" 

The individual so summoned left his seat, and stood 
before the throne. 

James Charles applied his spectacles close to Neddy's 
face, deliberately and diligently scanning it, now upwards 
and downwards, now from side to side. With much suavity 
he then took him by the shoulder, and induced him to turn 
round and round, that he might critically inspect the evi- 
dences left upon his dress of his Ml on the very dusty, old 
oak floor. 

This investigation ended, a piercing "whew!" — which 
continued while his breath lasted, followed it ; the " whew" 
was, by the way, usual on such occasions as tho present, 
and it used to traverse the boys' heac^s, as if a )' ng needle 



FATHER C0NNELL. 125 

had been throat into one ear, and out* through the other. 
And then, after finishing the pinch of snuff, he politely ad- 
dressed Neddy. 

" Why, sir, you are quite a buffer — a perfect Mendoza. 
I had no conception whatsoever, sir, that my seminary had 
the honor of containing such an eminent pugilist. But, 
sir, any young gentleman, who aspires to become a bully, 
under this roof, must begin by fighting with me, and more 
than that — he must become my conqueror, before I can 
permit the English Academy to be turned into a bear- 
garden. But we shall speak of this, sir, when I shall have 
discharged a more pressing duty. In the mean time, 
Master Edmund Fennell, have the kindness to kneel down 
— a little apart, however, from those two prone animals," 
pointing to the two dirty fellows, who of course still con- 
tinued on their hands and knees. 

Neddy could have said something in his own defence, 
but he was either too proud or too much put out to do so ; 
or perhaps he wisely reserved himself for the re-investiga- 
tion of his case, which seemed to have been promised ; so 
he knelt down. 

A new fit of crying and sobbing was heard from the old 
table in the recess, and a beautiful little girl, her cheeks 
streaming tears, ran forward to the judgment-seat 

And — " Sir, sir," she exclaimed, clasping her little hands, 
" do not punish Ned Fennell — he doesn t deserve it ! — he 
is a good little boy, and often comes to see my father, 
with old priest Gonnell — and my father says he is a good 
boy — and so does priest Gonnell ; — and least of all does he 
deserve your anger, for what has happened this morning ! 
I saw and heard it all, sir — and I can make you sure that 
he has done nothing wrong, — no — but done everything 
that was right, sir. Oh ! good Mr. James Charles Buch- 
mahon, do not take him into your room and hurt him !" 

Neddy had not shed a tear before this moment ; after an 
upward glance at his little advocate, he now cried heartily 
— but they were happy tears he shed. James Charles 
Buchxnahon stood motionless — his large, cold eyes became 
half-covered by their upper lids. He smiled, in something 
like the kindliness of human nature, and the boys thought, 
as well as they could judge through his spectacles, that 
a softening moisture came over them. At all events, he 



126 FATHER CONNELL. 

quietly sat down, took the little girl by the hand, drew 
her to his knee, and began to question her in a low voice. 

She informed him that Neddy's scuffle, in the first 
instance, with the two dirty fellows, arose out of his 
endeavoring to hinder them from approaching the girls' 
table with their atrocious book of fortunes. She repeated 
the words that had passed between Neddy and them ; and 
how Neddy put the book into the pocket of his jacket, and 
then how they fell upon him, while he would not give up 
his prize, but defended himself as well as he was able. 
James Charles listened attentively, and questioned the 
child over again, and very minutely. When she had said 
all she could say, he bent his lips to her ear and whispered 
a few words. The little thing clapped her hands, dashed 
aside with them the tears and the golden hair at once, 
which were both blinding her, and her lovely little face 
was one glowing smile, as she whispered in her turn — 
" Oh ! thank you, sir." But James Charles Buchmahon, 
becoming somewhat scandalized at so unaffected a show of 
feeling and of nature, raised his fore-finger and said, in 
almost one of his freezing tones — " Now go back to your 
seat. Miss M'Neary." 

Little Helen, after making her little salaam, obeyed ; 
but not before her smiling eyes and those of Neddy Fen- 
nell, now also smiling, had contrived to meet. 

A death-like silence ensued — 

" It was as if the general pulse 
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause, 
An awful pause, prophetic of her end I" 

And during the "awful pause" James Charles Buchma- 
hon, half inclimng himself backwards, and holding his 
head perfectly erect, while his hands hung clenched by his 
aides, frowned downwards upon the two dirty fellows, in, 
as it were, speechless abhorrence and indignation. 

At length he broke the pause by uttering, in tones that 
seemed to come from the depths of his laboring bosom : — 

"Quadrupeds! become, for a moment, bipeds — imitate 
humanity by standing upright" 

With the facility of dancing bears the quadrupeds did as 
they were bid. 

" Quadrupeds ! how many senses are there ? M 



FATHER C0NNELL. 12? 

•'Five, sir !" they bawled oat in a breath. 

"You, quadruped, to my right hand, name those five 
senses." 

" Feeling, healing, seeing, tasting, and smelling, sir." 

All this seemed very wide of the mark, and puzzled the 
dirty fellows, and the whole school besides, exceedingly. 

" So far, so good. Well, then, none of my five senses 
ever yet perceived, so as to cause my reflective powers to 
apprehend, and thereby my understanding to arrive at the 
conclusion that the English Academy was founded and 
instituted by me, for the training up of any of the inferior 
animals— of any of the brute creation, in fact I could not 
have possibly imagined that, at this time of my life, I was 
to degenerate into an instructor of beast brutes — ay, of the 
foulest among the foul brutes— of foul, snorting swine. 
But you have undeceived me. And allow me to ask you, 
how has it come to pass that you have been enabled to 
stand upright in your sty, and present yourself, upon two 
feet, at the threshold of the English Academy? By what 
' mighty magic ' has been wrought the presumptuous de- 
ception?" 

The quadrupeds did not venture to answer the question* 

"I say to you both that, in daring to stand erect on 
your hinder legs, you have attained the very climax of 
audacity. But—" here James Charles slowly took out of 
his desk the cat-o'-nine-tails — "but I will assert over you 
the outraged dignity of human nature. Great as may 
have been the spell which enabled you, for a season, to 
look like human beings, I can overmaster that spell by a 
higher one, and force you to resume your pristine positions 
on the earth. Down, therefore ! Down again on all-fours 
. — I command your re-transformation !" he waved the cat 
slowly round his head ; " abandon the bearing of humanity, 
and once more move along with prone visages and snouts, 
delving into your native mire and filth." 

The swine, as James Charles now called them, evidently 
did not comprehend this long harangue, and only glared 
at him with pallid visages. 

" Did you not hear me, unclean brutes?" 

"Yes sir," they gasped. 

" Obey, then 1 " — a hissing of whipcord came round theif 
ears, and then its crash descended on their bare heads. 



128 FATHER C0NNELL. 

They shouted, clapped their hands to their smarting era* 
niums, and jumped aside. The cat next applied her claws 
to the backs of those hands ; and there was a still louder 
yell, and a wider jump aside. 

"We don't know what you want us to do, sir!" they 
screamed out 

But James Charles Buchmahon soon make them know ; 
and again they were on their hands and knees. 

"Grunt now, ye swine — manifest your nature a little 
farther. Grunt ! " he again elevated the cat. 

They earnestly assured him they could not grunt. 

" Can't ? I will soon show all the young gentlemen here 
that I have not mistaken your nature or qualities — come, 
grunt, I sayl" and the cat was scratching wherever she 
could insert a claw. 

"Ugh, ugh — ugh, ugh — oh-ah!" they at last grunted 
and shouted together. 

"Did I not judge aright, gentlemen of the English 
Academy — hark, how plainly they can speak their original - 
language — walk forward, now, swine — but still, still oa 
your four legs — do you hear ? and grunt as ye go, that all 
human beings may avoid you." 

Bound and round the school-room he made them crawl, 
while, per force, they still imitated the discordant sounds 
of the animals they personified. In vain did they attempt 
to escape under desks or forms. With a smart cane, which 
he had now substituted for the cat, their merciless driver 
soon hunted them out again to the middle of the floor ; 
and if they ceased their motion, for one instant, or refused 
to grunt, down came the cane on them. 

At last;, growing tired of his occupation, James Charles 
halted, and allowed them to do the same. 

"So far, swine/' he said, "you have been only enforced 
to resume your proper natures, and display your proper 
attributes. Real punishment for your crimes you have not 
yet received. Punishment, first, for your unnameable 
crimes at yonder table, and all your proceedings connected 
therewith ; punishment, secondly, for your cowardly swin- 
ish crime of attacking together one little boy ; one little 
human creature, certainly inferior to you in mere brute 
strength — and rending and disfiguring the comely human 
features that providence had blessed him with. I am still 



FATHER CONNELL. 129 

your debtor, I admit. Bat please God, I shall not long be 
so." 

Only waiting to imbibe a fresh pinch of snuff, as a kind 
of piquant stimulus to his already perfect good will for the 
task before him, James Charles then belabored the two 
dirty rascals, from the nape of the neck to the termination 
of the back-bone— allowing them, at last, to go halting and 
roaring to their places, only because his arm was no longer 
able to hit them hard enough. 

Again returning to his desk, he again called out, " Master 
Edmund Fennell — " speaking still very loudly, though the 
boy was within a very few inches of him. Neddy arose, 
willingly enough. 

"I, the more readily, and the more easily have been in- 
duced to remit the punishment due to your offence, sir, of 
repelling even by one single ungentlemanlike blow, the 
attack made, no matter how brutally, upon you, because 
your late re-entrance into the English Academy, after a 
long absence from it, since your good father's death — " 
Neddy burst out crying — " may have caused you to forget 
that I require from the youth of my establishment, not the 
turbulence of prize-fighters, but the habits of young gen- 
tlemen. Sir, there shall be no boxing-matches in the 
English Academy. If there be cause of quarrel, it must 
be immediately referred to me, and Justice shall be dealt 
to both parties. Go now, Master Edmund Fennell, and 
return your respectful thanks to Miss Helen M'Neary, to 
whose generous interference, you stand chiefly indebted on 
this important occasion ; go, sir — if indeed the young lady 
can bear to regard, even for an instant, the present very 
ungentlemanlike state of your features." 

Neddy was instantly hastening, as fast as he could walk, 
his arms wide open, to obey this reasonable and pleasant 
request. 

" Stop, sir," roared James Charles Buchmahon. This 
unexpected countermand sounded like a gun-shot in Ned- 
dy's ears, and he certainly did stop. 

"Pray, sir, in what seminary did you acquire that un- 
couth and bruin-like method of paying your respects to a 
young lady? Retire some distance back, and make an 
obeisance to Miss M'Neary ; thus, sir ; look at me, sir, if 
you please." 



130 FATHER CONNELL. 

Ned looked accordingly, and beheld James Charles Bach- 
mahon advance his finger and" thumb to the brim of his 
cream-colored beaver, keeping his elbow turned out, and 
his arm well rounded as he did so ; and then he beheld 
him solemnly raise the beaver from his bald, grey head, 
sway it downward gradually and gracefully, and bent his 
body, until his head came on a hne with his hips ; and 
James Charles, during all this process, smiled and simpered 
his very best, and at last said, in a fascinating tone — " Miss 
Helen M'Neary, I return you my most sincere and respect- 
ful acknowledgments." — " Now, sir!" And James Charles 
again stood very straight, and holding his head very high, 
proud of the perfection of his politeness, while his eye took 
a short circuit round the school-room, to notice the uni- 
versal admiration which his dignified gracefulness must 
have called forth. Neddy Fennell contrived to turn his 
face from the observation of his preceptor, while he per- 
formed the task prescribed to him; and then gave — repeat- 
ing every syllable he had heard — so correct an imitation, 
in tone, manner, and action of James Charles Buchmahon, 
that the row of young ladies before him, and all the boys 
around him, were nearly suffocated with the attempt they 
made to suppress their laughter. 

" That will do, sir : you may now retire to your place," 
added James Charles. 

And Neddy did so ; and afterwards took his own time 
and opportunity for returning, in his own way, to Miss 
Helen M'Neary, "his most sincere and respectful acknowl- 
edgments ;" nor is it mentioned, that the little lady 
disliked this repetition of a display of his gratitude, or 
indeed, that she considered Neddy's way on the occasion, 
as very much inferior to James Charles Buchmahon's way. 
But this looks too like telling tales out of school. 



FATHER C0NNELL. 131 



CHAPTER XV. 

But, notwithstanding all his peculiarities, the master of 
the English Academy was really a good and efficient mas- 
ter ; and perhaps throughout all Ireland, at the time, there 
was not a better school of the kind than his. 

In it were taught, and well taught, along with reading, 
writing, and arithmetic, history, geography, English gram- 
mar, English composition, and the first principles of a cer- 
tain kind of metaphysics, borrowed, perhaps, by James 
Charles from his private reading of Locke and Harris, and 
arbitrarily interpreted by him in lectures to the boys of the 
head and second classes. And in all these branches of solid 
education, Ned Fennell, although an idle boy, soon made 
such progress as to become rather a favorite with his pre- 
ceptor. 

But it was in an additional branch — the ornamental one, 
namely, of declamation — Ned so excelled, in the estimation 
of James Charles Buchmahon, all his young rivals, that the 
pedagogue might be said to have grown, merely on that 
account, fond of the boy. For James Charles thought 
declamation a very fine thing himself, and imperturbably 
believed that he shone in it And little Ned s close imi- 
tation of his master's conventual manner of "making 
Kints," in different dramatic scenes and passages, quite 
ttered the heart of James Charles Buchmahon. 

Ned could repeat, for instance, " my name is Norval," to 
the iota of what his teacher regarded as the excellence of 
theatrical recitation; and when he came to the words, 
"round as my shield," not James Charles himself could 
more gallantly extend his left arm, and more expressively 
make the forefinger of his right hand revolve again, and 
again, and again, around an invisible shield, supposed to 
be buckled on the protruded limb. Again, in Richard's 
soliloquy on Bosworth field, when the tyrant says, "I'll 
try to sleep her into morn," Ned would pop, quite as 
naturally as his instructor ever did, on one knee, leaning 
his elbow on a iorm, and covering his face with his hand ; 
and afterwards, when he started up, roaring out, "give me 
another horse—-bind up my wonrds," the shiver of both 



132 FATHER C0NNELL. 

his hands — not a tiny shake, that might not perhaps be 
distinctly understood — but a good, palpable, palsy motion, 
that at a glance you knew betokened mortal terror — was, 
after himself, perfection in James Charles's eyes. And 
when Neddy Fennell became transformed into Hotspur, 
and was describing the fop, he would so closely copy his 
master's "stage business," in the situation, that once or 
twice James Charles nearly applauded him in an indecor- 
ous manner. For after covering the palm of his left hand 
with its proper fingers, to imitate the " pouncet-box," he 
would tap the middle and third finger, by way of its lid, 
and then deliberately raising up these two, he would delve 
the finger and thumb of his right hand into the open space, 
and supply them with such a monstrous pinch of pouncet- 
powder, and then dispose of it in the cavities of his nose 
with such a solemn and intense relish, that surely no other 
individual, one excepted, ever gave so faithful a picture of 
nature's self. As to his personification of Will Boniface, 
in which he had to thrust out his little person in order to 
make a paunch, and keep one arm akimbo, and straddle 
and waddle in his walk, and speak down in his throat, and 
puff out his cheeks, and drink " his ale" from the fist of his 
disengaged hand, smacking his lips after each draught — in 
this character, James Charles almost admitted "a rival 
near the throne." 

But the pleasure and admiration imparted by Ned Fen- 
nell's powers of declamation were not exclusively enjoyed 
by James Charles Buchmahon. When Neddy went 
through his different parts at home, that is under Father 
Connell's roof, the old man would look on at the serious 
sketches with great wonder ; and during his protege's 
enacting of such characters as Will Boniface, would move 
his head and his arms together up and down, and gently 
smite his knees with the palms of his hands, and laugh 
until he cried. 

And when he took Neddy by the hand, and led him to 
dinner at Gaby M*Neary's, as was often the case — for as 
little Helen has hinted, the old priest, and the old priest* 
hater had become the greatest friends in the world — Ned, 
in the hours of recreation during the evening, had at least 
two additional admirers in old Gaby's house. Indeed, 
glancing back again homewards for a moment, Mick Demp- 



FATHER CONNELL. 133 

ley and Mrs. Molloy occasionally formed another portion 
of his applauding audience, the latter exclaiming, very 
nearly in the words of Mrs. Quickly at the Boar's Head, 
"he does it as like one of those harloty players, as ever I 
Bee" (Mrs. Molloy had never seen one); and Tom Naddy 
would also be allowed to look on, although he was never 
known to show the slightest interest in the exhibition, no 
more than in any other exhibition or circumstance under 
the sun. 

And along with all these things, it will be gratifying to 
have it known, that Father Gonnell continued to love, as 
much as he admired, his adopted son. He studied Neddy 
attentively and anxiously, but found nothing positively evil 
in him. He was a truth-loving boy, not a jot of meanness 
was in his nature, he was a grateful and an affectionate 
boy, and he regularly, and of his own accord, attended to 
all his religious duties; so that the old priest could not 
help loving him. 

And yet, while he loved, he also feared for Neddy. The , 
young lad's actions, though seldom blameful, too often 
sprang from impulse, when they should have resulted from 
principle. He dearly liked frolic and fun, and in his eager- 
ness for either would, now and then, forget a duty. In 
choosing objects on which to exercise his practical jokes, 
he did not always distinguish between the fit and the unfit, 
between those persons who might afford to bear a boy's 
jest, and those whom the boy's sense of veneration ought 
to have spared from such an impertinence. And all this 
too Father Gonnell thought he saw. He did not see, how- 
ever, how much of the contradiction of Neddy's character, 
at this time of his life, was caused by the stealthy and un- 
suspected influence, and the inscrutable humor of another 
person — namely, Tom Naddy, "the priest's boy." For 
instance — 

" I want you to write a bit iv a letther for me, sir," said 
Tom to him one evening. 

" Surely you can write it yourself, Tom." 

"I couldn't write it out handsome enough, Masther 
Neddy ; 'tis so long sense I done a thing ov the kind, my 
hand is out, somehow." 

" Well then, Tom, 111 do it for you." 

And without a single inquiry about the nature of the 



134 FATHER CONNELL. 

epistle to be written, he hurried off Tom to the little osief 
arbor at the top of the priest's garden, and at that person's 
dictation he wrote as follows : — 

" Honorable Sir,— I am a poor, distressed creature, with a wife and 
seven small children, and I can't get a stroke of work to do, and I come 
to crave jour charity. While there is plenty of beef and mutton, and 
the best of bacon in your kitchen, to give you more than enough every 
day in the year, and while you have the good meat to throw away, I 
haven't a potato to give to my destitute family ; and while you have 
your cellar full of choice wine to drink into yourself, morning, noon, 
and night, I haven't one sup of sour milk to wet the lips of myself, my 
wife, or my children ; so God reward you, sir, and out of your plentiful 
store give a small charity to a poor forlorn soul." 

" That'll do iligant," remarked Tom. 

"And what are you going to do with it?" asked Ned. 

" 111 tell you another time, sir ; an' I'll engage for the 
present that the poor, forlorn sowl will get a big charity on 
the head of it." 

And Master Tom Naddy pocketed, and walked slowly 
off, with the document, after he had obtained Ned FennelTs 
solemn promise — a promise very unthinkingly given, for 
in fact Ned's head was fall of something else— not to tell 
any living being, that he, Tom Naddy, had had anything 
to do with the fabrication of the said document. 

Early the next day, as Father Connell sat in his little 
parlor, a very miserable, poor man, introduced by Mrs. 
Molloy, presented him with a letter. 

The priest read it hastily over, fixing his eyes, once or 
twice on the face of its bearer. He then bestowed on it a 
more leisurely perusal ; and now the glances which he shot 
towards the surprised and fear-stricken poor claimant, 
were, for Father Connell, unusually vivacious. He noxt 
reflected for a moment ; and finally started up, seized the 
now recoiling suitor by the arm, and hurried him into the 
kitchen. 

" Now, sir/' he said, pointing to the almost bare walls, 
" where is the beef, and the mutton, and the bacon for me 
to feast upon, while you and your family are fasting at 
home? — show them to me! — where are they, I say?*' 

"Your Reverence, I — " 

" Shame upon you, shame upon you, man, to belie me in 
such a manner." 

" Sir— sir— " 



FATHER CONNELL, 135 

"Shame upon you f if the Lord made yon poor, lie gave 
yon no license to belie your priest ; come along with me 
still!" 

The astounded pauper found himself again forced for- 
ward, out of the kitchen. Father Connell placed him 
before the half-barrel of ale, which, without any kind of 
enclosure, to screen it from observation, stood, "under the 
stairs ;" and causing him, forcing him indeed, to bend his 
neck and shoulders, he put him too half-way under the 
stairs, while he continued : — 

" And there is my cellar for you — the only cellar I have ; 
take out of it, if you please, a bottle of the choice wine, that 
I drink, morning, noon, and night ; come, find it, I say — 
find it ! — find me a bottle of the choice wine !" 

"I don't see any kind ov wine at all here, sir, I protest." 

" Well then ; come out of that, and stand before me." 

The terrified man obeyed, crawling backward, like a 
crab. 

" Your nature must be very uncharitable, good man, and 
very bold and daring too — to come into* my house, and to 
my very face charge me with the sin of gluttony, and with 
the sin of intemperance ; and you must also be a very great 
fool, to imagine that you could expect a benefaction from 
the man you calumniated. I am ashamed of you, my good 
man — I am, indeed, and I wonder at you ; on my word I 
do." 

In addition to his former consternation, no one could 
possibly look more astonished, than now did the person 
thus addressed. It was evident to him, that he was ac- 
cused of some crime, but of what kind he could not for his 
soul conjecture. Why he had been half-dragged into the 
kitchen, and under the stairs, to look for beef, mutton, 
bacon, and choice wine, where none was to be found, 
seemed another mystery, inexplicable to the poor, stupified 
fellow ; and the upshot of it was, that tears came into his 
eyes, and coursed through the wrinkles of his cheeks. He 
moved in silence to quit the presence of his offended 
priest. 

But Father Connell had not bargained for this at alL 
In an instant his pious displeasure left him ; pity, if not 
remorse, touched his heart, and he brushed a tear from his 
own old eyes as he called out—" stop, my good man." 



136 FATHER C0NNBLL. 

The wretched being, somewhat reassured by the present 
kindness of the clergyman's tone, did so. 

" I see you are sorry for your fault, and I forgive you ; 
you are penitent — that's enough ; what reconciles us to our 
God surely ought to make us friends with one another. 
But let me warn you against calumniating your neighbor 
in future : it is a grievous, grievous sin. Go home now to 
your family ;" he took the man's hand, and while shaking 
it and squeezing it, deposited in his palm the few pieces of 
silver he could find in his pockets ; — " go : I forgive you 
from my heart, distress mates us bitter and censorious ; 
go, and may God bless you." 

The poor man, now weeping plentifully, dropped on his 
knee to receive the blessing, and then hurried out of the 
house. 

Throughout these occurrences, Tom Naddy had been 
peeping, now from one corner, now from another; and 
laughing — not audibly, but silently in all the cavities next 
to his heart. 

Father Council again sat down in his little parlor, and 
again took up and read the strange petition he had just 
received. In a few minutes he laid it down before him, 
with a sudden and very painful suspicion in his mind. It 
struck him now, for the first time, that he knew the hand- 
writing. He examined it more closely, and conviction fol- 
lowed, and with it came a pang, perhaps the bitterest 
which, during his life, he had ever known, and he laid his 
forehead on his hands while it swayed him. 

After some time he arose, his almost white eyebrows 
knitted and depressed, and Tom Naddy heard him walking 
very rapidly about the parlor. In a few minutes he folded 
up the paper, put it in his pocket, and left the house. 

Proceeding to the residence, in a remote suburb street, 
of the person who had brought him the letter, Father 
Gonnell questioned the poor man about it " Who wrote 
it for him?" He had never asked any one to write it It 
had been brought to him by a young lad, of that lad's own 
accord, who assured him that if he presented it to Father 
Connell much good would thereby result to him and his 
family. " Had he since then read the letter, or got any 
one to do so for him ?" No, the petitioner could not read 
writing himself, and didn't wish to be troublesome to any 



FATHER CONNBLL. 187 

one else on the subject. " Did he know the lad's name ?" 
£es, but he had pledged his solemn word not to reveal it to 
a human being ; he would disclose it to Father Connelly 
however, if the clergyman wished. But Father Connell 
instantly demurred : no man, he said, could pretend to 
release another from the engagement of a solemn promise ; 
and he returned to his house. 

About this time of the day Ned Fennell was also moving 
homeward from the English Academy, capering and swing- 
ing his satchel round his head, and "as hungry as a 
hound," according to himself, for his dinner. Tom Naddy 
met him some distance from their abode. 

" You won't forget that I have your word pledged to me, 
MastherNed?" said Tom. 

" Til keep my word like a man, when it is pledged ; but 
what have I pledged it about now ? I quite forget." 

" You pledged me your solemn word, that you'd never 
let it be known to any one in the wide world, that it was I 
put you on to writing the letther last night." 

" Oh, ay, I have it now ; it quite went out of my mind : 
so never fear ; my word to you shall be kept" 

They parted. Ned was soon knocking at Father Con- 
nell's door. Mrs. Molloy opened it to him. He took hold 
of both her hands and shook them violently. 

"Will you never larn to be easy an' quiet, Masther 
Neddy?" she asked in words of reproof, while her very 
beard smiled in approval of the lad s greeting, which she 
cordially returned. 

" I'll be as quiet as a lamb while I am eating my dinner, 
Mrs. Molloy : so walk in here and get it for me." 

He tied his satchel to her apron-string, passed an arm 
through one of hers, and strutted at her side towards the 
house, looking up and grimacing into her face— all to the 
great delight of tne good old lady, although she threatened 
to box his ears, "if he wouldn't be quiet, and lave her 
alone." The boy entered the little parlor with his usual 
salutation of respect, and his smile of real affection ; but 
the cheery reply of "Welcome home, Neddy, my child," 
was not on this occasion accorded to him. The old man 
only nodded gravely, and motioned to him to become 
seated to the little table, on which his dinner was usually 
laid. 



18* FATHER CONNKLL. 

Poor Ned felt chilled, and, though he could not suspect 
why, terrified. His frugal meal was quickly placed before 
him by Mrs. Molloy, who gabbled something or other, to 
which neither the priest nor his protege* answered a word. 
It was oyer, and still perfect silence continued ; and, not- 
withstanding the boy's late boast of ravenousness, he had 
scarcely eaten a mouthful He now glanced towards 
Father Connell, and perceived that he sat with crossed 
knees and folded arms, and a very picture of old age 
sorrowing. 

" Gome hither, Neddy Fennell," said the clergyman at 
last. The boy stood to his knee. 

" Neddy, I knew you were fond of a frolic, and thought- 
less and giddy in pursuing it; but I passed this over, 
because I always was sure that your jokes came into your 
head, without a plan, and without an intention of doing 
harm to any one ; and I said to myself, that riper years 
would make you more steady. But I was wrong in part of 
my judgment, Neddy Fennell I now find out, and it gives 
me great trouble at my heart to know the fact, that you 
use fore-cast, and take your leisure to lay a plan, for the 
purpose of having your joke; yes, Neddy, and you can 
think, and call it sport to make laughter for yourself, out 
of the sorrows and sufferings of the poor, and to mock, and 
turn into a scoff; your best friend in this world, Neddy ; 
and a very old man too, Neddy ; a very old man, and your 
priest." 

Neddy was vehemently beginning to utter something. 

"Hush, child— do not add to your offences, by saying 
what is not the truth. I have often told you, that one lie 
puts us into the power of the father of lies." 

" I have never tQld you a lie, sir ; I never will tell you a 
lie, sir ; but — " 

"Do not interrupt me, Neddy. Do not merely promise 
me the truth ; but answer me at present in the truth. Is 
that your handwriting ?" he held the letter out to him. 
Having glanced over it, Neddy did not immediately answer. 
A vague thought of Tom Naddy's treachery began to break 
upon his mind. Father Connell sternly repeated his 
question. 

"Yes, sir/' he replied, in a very humble tone, "this was 
written by me." 



FATHER CONNELL. 139 

•'I thought bo, Neddy ; indeed I was sore of it ; and yet, 
your own words make me sadder than ever." 

The boy was about to explain, with flushed cheeks and 
flashing eyes, how he had been induced to write it, and of 
course by whom ; but a recollection of his solemn promise 
to Tom Naddy checked him, and when the old priest had 
uttered the last words, Neddy Fennell began crying bit- 
terly. He saw that he could not escape from the most 
disgraceful of charges, and despair very nearly possessed 
him. - 

"Listen to me, child. I loved you. I loved you as a J 
father ; as your father in the spirit, and for the sake of him 
who left us the new commandment — ' love one another/ — 
And indeed, Neddy, I think — I fear — that — I loved you too 
well, in a mere human yearning of the heart also ; and that 
I am, therefore, now punished. 'Tis quite true, my child. 
Abraham never loved Isaac, and Isaac never loved Jacob, 
more than I loved you ; and Rachel weeping for her chil- 
dren, and refusing comfort, because they were not, never I 
believe, sorrowed over the loss of them more truly, than I 
now sorrow over your falling off!" 

Father ConnelTs broken voice, interrupted him ; and 
Neddy could now only go on crying until his grief became 
a passionate paroxysm. 

" Well, Neddy, I see you are sorry for your crime — and 
that is something. But my duty towards you plainly tells 
me that you ought to suffer more. Your crime calls out 
for chastisement, my child — painful, bodily chastisement. 
I am commissioned to pluck up by the roots, this instant 
the vices that are beginning to sprout in your young heart ; 
lest that heart might become an unfeeling one in your man- 
hood, and make you, when the grave covers me, a bold and 
careless scoffer of all that is holy in earthly misfortune, and, 
worse than that, in religion, Neddy." 

The young lad flung himself upon his knees, and with 
clasped hands was beginning an appeal, though he still had 
resolved not to break his pledge to Tom Naddy. 

"It is no use, child ; it is no use : stand up and walk on 
before me into the yard." The priest as yet could only 
think that he was petitioning against the infliction of the 
promised chastisement Arrived in the yard, Father Con- 
neU commanded him to enter "the black hole," and not to 



? ' 



140 FATHER CONNELL. 

leave it till he should be brought out for further punish- 
ment Ned obeyed in silence. This " black hole/' was a 
small shed, built to one side of the little yard, and used as 
a storehouse for coals and other fuel Father Connell 
hasped its door upon him ; for it had no lock, and Ned 
heard his footsteps leaving the premises. 

Not many minutes had elapsed, when the hasp was brisk- 
ly unloosed, however, the door flung open, and the burly 
person of the housekeeper seen by Neddy supplying its 
place; that is, shutting out the light of day, almost as effect- 
ually as ever it had done. 

"What mischief did you do now, you misfortunate sky- 
bow ? " she hoarsely demanded. 

There was no answer to the lady's question. She peered 
in. Her pet was sitting on a lump of coal, his hands 
covering his face ; and she saw his breast heaving with sobs, 
while tears escaped over the backs of his hands. Mrs. 
Molloy had never seen him in such a mood before. 

" Lord be good to me, sowl an' body, what's the matther 
with you, ishild?" 

StiU no answer. 

" Will you spake to me, will you, you poor brat ov a boy? 
Will you, I say ; is it crying you are for being put in here ? 
For what reason would that make you cry? A'int I come 
to let you out?" 

" I'm not crying for being put in here," at last sobbed 
Ned, " but I'm crying to think, that Father Connell would 
have it on his mind, that I could make sport of him, and 
of a poor starving man and his family ; it s that I am cry- 
ing for, Peggy." 

"An' tell me, my lanna, what happened to make the 
priest think that wrong ov you ?" 

"No matter, Peggy; I can't tell you about it; he will 
tell you himself; I can't ; that's alL" 

" keep it all te yourself then, you obstinate little mule, 
what need I care ?- Ned, agra, tell me what's the matther ; 
sure I'll do my best to bring you over it? that's a good 
boy ; tell me now." 

" No, Peggy — I say again I can't" 

" Well, bottle it up and smoke it Tare-an'-ages ! Make 
ducks an' drakes ov it, my honey! — Neddy, avonrneen, 
what is it about, at all, at all ?" 



FATHER CONNELL. 141 

Ned only shook me head. 

"You won't, won't you? I don't care an onld rush, 
whether you do or no, you scatther-brained scapegrace. 
Neddy, my darlin', won't you tell me ?" 

" If I could tell any one, I'd tell you, Peggy. But I 
made a solemn promise, that I wouldn t tell a living creat- 
ure." 

" Sup, an' make merry on your promise then, an' much 
good may it do you. Come out o' that, anyhow : here- 
come out, I bid you." 

" Peggy, I won't leave this, until the priest comes back ; 
ni go through everything he bids me." 

" Come out to me this moment !" 

"I will not, Peggy." 

" No ? Ooh, och, isn't this a poor case? Do you want 
to torment the sowl an' body out o' me ? Do you want to 
vex the very liver is in me ? you cross-grained, bull-headed, 
bit ov a boy ; 111 make you come out, or 111 know for 
whatl" 

She stooped, and was making a grasp at her favorite, 
when her well-starched cap encountered the claw of a rusty 
nail, at the top of the door-way, and by it was whisked off 
her head, while her disengaged grey locks tumbled about 
her face. But, she returned to the charge, and was drag- 
ging out Neddy perforce, when Father ConnelTs voice 
sounded deeply and authoritatively at her back : — 

"Peggy, do not meddle with the boy." 

" But I will meddle with the boy. Do you want to make 
a peel-garlic of the crature? Do you want to put him in 
his airly grave? Fie, for shame on your Reverence I 
There is'nt a lovin'er sowl, for yourself, an' myself, undher 
the livin' sun, this blessed minit." 

"Come out at my bidding, Neddy Fennel!," said the 
priest Neddy obeyed at once. 

Standing at Father ConnelTs back, appeared Mick Demp- 
sey, master of the parish poor-school, clad as sprucely as 
ever, and his scarlet watch-ribbon streaking down his thigh, 
and behind him again stood Tom Naddy, Ins hands crippled 
into each other, his lips were fixed as if for whistling, al- 
though no such sound reached the by-standers. And did 
Ned's eyes deceive him ? Was there no sorrow upon his 
features for the boy he had placed in sore trouble ? 



142 FATHER CONNELL. 

Ned looked at him again, and it was, he assured himself 
an expression of gratified cunning solely, which played 
through the puckers around the whistler's mouth. And, 
oh, how his blood raged at this discovery- -and what would 
he not have given to let fly his clenched fists, at that mo 
ment, into his old friend's face ! 

But Father Connell commanded him to walk before 
him into the parlor, Mick Dempsey and Tom Naddy fol- 
lowing ; and while Mrs. Molloy was still engaged forcing 
her stiff, stubborn hair under her reclaimed cap, and mut- 
tering to herself all the time, against the tyranny prac- 
ticed on "her poor lovin' boy," the priest had locked the 
parlor door on the inside upon himself and his present 
party. 

" Have you brought the birch with you, Mr. Dempsey ? " 
he now solemnly inquired. 

" I have so, sir, 'pon my word," placidly answered Mick, 
and he produced from under his coat a besom of select 
birch-twigs, almost large enough to sweep the floor of his 
own school-house — a process, by the way, which the said 
floor very often wanted. 

"Neddy Fennel, prepare your person for the severe 
punishment I have promised you ; strip, sir." 

As if he would at once get through a very unpalatable 
duty, Neddy was immediately and rapidly at work, and 
very soon stood ready for execution. 

" Here, Tom Naddy," continued the priest, " take Master 
Ned Fennell on your shoulders." 

" Father Connell," said Ned, his tears now dried up, and 
his face calm though stern, "if you tell Mr. Dempsey to 
cut away every bit of flesh that is on me — " 

"Oh, murther!" shrieked a hoarse voice, outside the 
door, "every bit ov the flesh that is on him I — let me in 
here, I say ; let me in." No one took notice. 

" If he cuts away till he's tired, sir, I'll not move an inch 
under his hand ; but sir — I will not go on that fellow's 
back." 

"Let me in, I bid ye, or 111 whip the cloak over my 
head, an' go to the bishop, an' tell on ye ! Yis, an' I'll go 
to the mayor's office, an' tell on ye, let me in — let me in/' 
and Mrs. Molloy kicked violently at the door. 

"Neddy," rejoined Father Connell, "you have acknowl- 



FATHER CONNELL. 143 

edged your crime, and why will yon not take its punish- 
ment obediently?" 

"I can't say why, sir — but twenty men, and twenty 
horses to drag me, would never put me on his back." 

" Tom Naddy, you vagabone, if yon lend a hand to hoist 
him, I'll make you sup sorrow the longest day you live !" 
again shouted the voice outside the door, while the former 
loud kicking continued. 

" Well, Neddy, so far you shall be indulged ; Mr. Demp- 
sey, let him receive his reward, just as he stands ; proceed, 
Mr. Dempsey." 

" Mick Dempsey, you long gad 1" — Mrs. Molloy now had 
her eye to the key-hole, and saw Mick put one leg in 
advance of the other, and slightly wave aloft, in his right 
hand, his formidable implement of torture. 

"Mick Dempsey, I say, touch him if you dare ; touch 
him with only a wet finger, an' salvation to my wicked 
sowl ! but I'll — oh ! — tare-an'-ages, look at that !" 

While talking, she saw the little besom flourished in the 
air, while Mick Dempsey gave two or three short coughs— 
and then, crash it came, on a table near at hand. 

" Dress now, Neddy, my child ; ay, my good child.' 9 

Gazing in wonder, and by no means in displeasure, into 
the faces of those around him, Ned, though sorely puzzled 
at this termination of the affair, was not slow in attending 
to the priest's last command. Father Oonnell was smiting 
blandly; Mick Dempsey was also smiling, with the ex- 
pression of some great hidden meaning, and even Tom 
Naddy was — trying to smile, but could not The mis- 
chievous rascal had no machinery within him able to 
produce 'the effect. 

" Come here to me now, my good child," Father Oonnell 
went on, extending his arm. Neddy sprang forward. 

"Mick Dempsey," continued the old priest, in a loud, 
tone of rejoicing, " isn't Neddy a good boy, after all V 9 

" He is to be sure," answered Mrs. Molloy, outside the 
door, "and whoever said he wasn't but your two sefs 
within there? — and maybe I'd be let in at last. Who 
knows but I might?" she continued, uttering a hoarse, 
hideous giggle. 

" Let her in, Mick," said Father Oonnell ; and accord- 
ingly the housekeeper entered upon the scene. 

7 



*44 FATHER CONNELL. 

"He is, Mick — he is, Peggy — a very good boy. He fctc 
not, as I thought at first made sport of a poor man's 
sorrow nor mocked his old priest; and he bore all I 
charged him with, and he stood ready for heavy punish- 
ment sooner than break a promise solemnly given. Yes, 
Neddy, I love you as well as ever I did, now ; and I believe 
better, Neddy ;" and he bent his head, and laid his cheek 
to the boy's cheek. 

Ned slid down, kneeling, from his old friend's embrace, 
and clasped his arms round his knees, weepine for joy. 
And "I see yon know all about the letter, sir," he said — 
" who told you, sir f 

" Tom Naddy met me in the bosheen, and told me every 
word about it ; and that says a good dealfor Tom Naddy ; 
he wouldn't let a good boy suffer for his fault :" — Ned 
hurried over to Tom, and held out his hand. 

" Oome here to me again, my child." He now whispered 
into Ned's ear, "I am so very much rejoiced to find you 
guiltless, that I do not intend to chastise Tom Naddy, as 
he deserves." 

" Thank you from the heart, sir." 

"No, I will not— I will not punish him; he erred greatly 
at first, but he behaved well, very well, afterwards. Peggy, 
listen to me," and he proceeded to recount for Peggy's 
satisfaction — for her approval, Peggy thought— the whole 
transaction, from beginning to end, during which she 
would often slap the palms of her hands together, and 
interrupt her master with such expressions as — " Didn't I 
tell you, ma-ha-bouchal he was! — that's the boy! — your 
sowl against a hundhred!" And when the story was 
finished she caught and jerked Neddy up into her arms, as 
if he had been an infant, hugged him, and incommoded 
his chin with her beard, while she was kissing him. As 
for Tom Naddy, she could only bring herself to notice him 
with her usual expression of " kiln-dried-brai" 

" And now, Peggy," said Father Connell, in conclusion, 
"don't you think Neddy deserves a little mug of ale, that 
he mav drink really out of a real mug, and not out of his 
own little fist, while he is playing Mr. Boniface for youf 
And don't you think Mick ftempsey deserves another mug 
of ale, because he gave your pet such a sound flogging 7 
And Tom Naddy, too— won't you give him a draught in 



FATHER CONNELL. 145 

the kitchen ? " — Mrs. Molloy began to look sour, but at the 
next words brightened up again — "and take a good long 
one yourself with him? and I protest I think 111 have 
another mug myself ; come, Peggy, stir yourself." 

Peggy soon fulfilled her orders ; and as the good ale was 
quaffed or sipped, Father Connell walked up and down the 
parlor, gently rubbing his hands, and still smiling ; and 
almost as often as he passed his adopted son, he would 
stop a moment, lay his nand on his shoulder, or pass his 
fingers over his curly pate, and whisper, " God bless you, 
my child ; " and then he would say something pleasant, at 
which every one laughed ; and when Peggy came to the 
parlor door, he would tell her she was a -faithless sentinel 
over a prisoner ; and Peggy would tell him in return, that 
she didn't hire with him to be a jailor — and forewarn him 
that every time he put " her lovin' boy " into the black 
hole, she would let nim out, at which every one, Father 
Connell included, would laugh heartily again; so that 
verily there was much jubilee and rejoicing, that evening, 
in the priest's parlor — ay, and in his kitchen too. The 
good man himself went to bed, with a feeling as if a moun- 
tain had just been pushed off his heart. 

This is a fit place to mention, that notwithstanding 
Father Connell's utmost care, poor Mrs. Fennell and her 
aunt had now been many months dead. 



+•» 



CHAPTER XVL 

A good, long stride, in seven-league boots, over some 
years. 

The corporate authorities of Father Connell's city, had, 
in common-council assembled, decreed and ordered, that, 
within the bounds of their jurisdiction, it should be sum- 
mer, or the " summer half-year " from the month of March 
to the month of September, and that, in consequence, no 
lamps need be lighted during that time ; in fact, that no 
lamps should be lighted. They had also come to a 
decision that, upon each and every night when the almanas 



146 FATHER CONNBLL. 

foretold ever so thin* a gleam of moonshine, it was to be, to 
all intents and purposes, a moonlight night, oyer the whole 
space they governed, and hence, they again commanded, 
that even daring their " winter half-year," when moonlight 
nights of this description occurred, the streets of their good 
city should not be indebted to human art for a single 
additional ray of illumination. That these orders in council 
for the regulation of the heavenly bodies were deduced 
from very nice scientific calculations, is not quite averred ; 
but that they suited, indifferently well, the peculiar 
economy of the little, crafty corporation, is positively 
asserted. 

It is November. It is a November evening too; the 
town clock has just struck seven. Furthermore, it is a 
moonlight night—in the almanac: that is, supposing the 
moon to be really " made of green cheese," no more than a 
segment of the edge of her crust can possibly be yet visible 
to her mistress the earth, and even of that mother earth, 
or at least as many of her children as dot the surface of tile 
small locality we have now to do with, are unable to discern 
a glint, so heavy and substantial is the canopy of blue-black 
clouds, interfering between the satellite and her primary. 
But no matter for all that, the corporate sages of the city 
had decided that a moonlight night it was to be ; and so 
not a single one of their paltry, half-starved little lamps is 
winking itself asleep, through the thick, the almost material 
darkness. 

And on this pleasant evening there is a low, fat, little, 
old man, leaning on his fat, little elbows and arms over the 
uncouth half-door of his shop, and by his low whistle, and 
his glances up and down the street, he does not seem at all 
inconvenienced by the state of the weather, or the want of 
lamp-light. He is the owner of a small tenement, with 
small windows in it, and yet those windows having sashes 
so heavy, that it was very difficult to raise them up, that is 
any of them that could at all be raised up. But in truth, 
the greater number of them had not been stirred for many 
years ; and the dust and dirt had not been brushed off 
them, one might suppose, since the first day of their con- 
struction; and almost every little pane of glass in them 
had been so often pieced and patched, that it became 
eventually doubtful whether any of their original glazery 



FATHER CONNELL. 147 

existed. And the little, fat old man's little shop had an 
inflation, called a bow-window, projecting into the path- 
way of the street, and so dingy, that the sharpest eye could 
not penetrate past its surface. 

What in the world he did there, peeping over his half- 
door, and whistling confidential music to himself, no 
rational passer-by could, for the life of him, imagine. 
There was nothing in the clouds in any wise attractive; 
neither moon, nor stars, nor Aurora Borealis, nor a comet, 
not evep color, nor motion, nor change, nor variety of any 
kind, nor even a promise of it all night long. The milli- 
ner's shop opposite to him was shut up, so that he could 
see no finery in its windows, no fine people within itself ; 
nay, he couldn't read, through the dense gloom, even the 
milliner's name upon her signboard across the street. The 
cloth-shop next to the milliner's at one side was also closed; 
the grocer's at its other side had very, very little custom. 
To be sure a few people, forced from their firesides by 
some grievous necessity, on such a chilly and doleful 
evening, now and then passed him, plashing through the 
little water-pools, or sliding over, or else sticking in the 
glutinous puddle of the streets ; but if these visions 
interested him, he could enjoy them but for a few seconds 
at a time, as they quickly vanished at his either hand, into 
the wide open "jaws of darkness." 

So no one could possibly tell what he was doing, and 
now for nearly two hours had been doing, in his own mind, 
as he leaned over his little half-door, emitting his almost 
inaudible little whistle, and rolling his heavy fat eyes in 
every direction. Could he tell himself? Indeed he could 
not 

A soft, lumpish, invisible substance, suddenly smote him 
on the cheek. He started, shuddered, said some prayers, 
but did not otherwise change his attitude. A second 
time, he was hit on the other cheek, in the same way, and a 
second time he only did what he had done before. A 
third, and a fourth time, a fifth and a sixth time, nay, a 
twentieth time, the mysterious assaults were repeated ; and 
yet, though evidently suffering great fear and terror, he 
would only pray the more volubly without flinching a step 
from his unlucky position. And could he now tell you 
what was the matter? He was very sure he could. He 



148 FATHER C0NNELL. 

was suffering under some deserved chastisement, from the 
" good people." They were fairy blows he felt, he would 
solemnly assure you. 

" A-rodge, a-rodge, come out o' that, a-rodge," exclaimed 
an almost naked, full limbed, gigantic figure, close to him, 
without head-covering, bare-footed, and bare-legged : the 
voice that spoke was half discordant, half mirthful, and the 
speaker, or rather gibberer, bent his large face close to our 
friend's and grimaced idiotically at him. He held one of 
the skirts of the indescribable clothing round his loins 
tucked over his left arm, and in the skirt was some oat- 
meal, and he would constantly dart his right hand among 
the provender, snatch up some of it, and dash it towards 
his mouth ; but he as often hit with it different parts of his 
countenance as he succeeded in lodging any of it within 
the receptacle for which it was intended ; and this constant 
powdering of his features gave a very ghastly expression to 
them. 

" A-rodge, a-rodge, come out o' that, a-rodge." 

" Is that you, Mickle ?" placidly questioned the little, fat 
man, as he immediately obeyed the command, to'" come 
out o' that," by at last altering his attitude, and opening 
his half-door. 

The monster bent himself half double, and gallopped 
into the little dingy shop, a fourth part lighted by the very 
smallest taper, and through it into the interior of the 
house. 

, " You've got nothin', ye beggin' ' budgy,' " was the next 
salutation which the Utile shopkeeper received from a thin, 
sharp-featured man, whose eye was like that of a vicious, 
./half-intelligent pig, and so small that his very large nose, 
high cheek-bones and beetling eye-brows, nearly hid it. 
He was inveterately yellow. He wore a suit of rusty 
black, begrimed and tattered; his black locks hung in 
matted cords about his cheeks and shoulders; and he 
carried under his arm something rolled up in a shoe- 
maker's leathern apron. 

" Here, George, here," was the only answer of the person 
addressed, as he again undid his hatchway. 

George entered, but did not race off as Mickle had done; 
he paused in the shop. 

"You've got nothin', I say, nor none of your cursed 



FATHER CONNBLL. 149 

breed?" he again questioned, as he blinked his eyes, with 
spiteful eagerness, at the little, old, fat man. 

" No, George, no." 

"There's no demand, yon beggin' bochacht" 

"No demand, George, none." 

" There's no demand on the man with the pepper-and- 
salt coat?" t 

"No demand, in life, George," and George's friend was 
closing his half-door, when the caustic idiot ran hastily to 
him, seized him by both his arms, and while his sharp 
features took nearly a crying expression, shook him vio- 
lently. 

"By Herns Td run you through, you beggin' thief I 
We're free, we're free — free of the citv — there is no one 
dare confine us, or shut doors on us — Id run you through; 
or any o' your cursed breed. We're free, I say?" he held 
his fore-finger close to the shopkeeper's eye, as if about to 
dart it fall into the orb. 

" Oh ; yes, you're free, George ; there's no doubt of it" 

"No doors to be shut on us?" 

"No, no, George." 

"Ho! ho! ho! yellow George! yellow George!" was 
screamed over tile half-door, by a low-sized, disjointed 
looking fellow, with a round face deeply pitted from the 
small-pox, one of his eyes, a sightless mass, projecting from 
its lids ; and the other, as well as the rest of his features, 
expressive, notwithstanding his frequent laughter, of much 
idiotic ferocity. He was clothed in a cast-off suit, much 
too large for him: his shoes were particularly so. He 
bent his face constantly towards the ground. His arms 
were very long, and he moved by occasionally hopping on 
his right leg, and then jerking forward the other side of 
his person. 

" Go long, ye blackamoors, breed that lived on horser' 
flesh," cried George, running towards him, in return for 
his salutation. 

"Yellow George, the fool!" shouted Paddy Moran, 
avoiding the rencontre, and slinging himself forward in 
the same direction which Mickle had taken. 

" I say, Budgy Donally, we're free, and there's no de* 
' mand ?" reiterated yellow George. 

"Ohl no, George, no." 



150 PATHEB CONNELL. 

"Well, well recompense von for thai HI pat yon in 
my uncle's, the alderman's house ; an' 111 throw yon fish 
an' a bag of bran/' was George's promise — one often made, 
by the way, as he followed his two predecessors. 

Budgy Donally, as George had called him, resumed his 

Elace at the half-door, and he had scarcely fixed himself in 
is old position when a repetition of the fairy blows (they 
certainly were inflicted by some unseen agency) occurred ; 
and again he started, half shouted in terror, and rapidly 
muttered his prayers, but still he would not wince under 
the infliction, nor even turn away his head from it. 

"A poor boy that's burned wid the frost," whiningly 
appealed a fresh visitant, a man clothed in shreds and 
patches, and different portions of his attire kept on him by 
the aid of small hay-ropes. As he announced himself, he 
leaned lazily on a long, thick wattle. 

As on the former occasion, the little half-door quickly 
opened to him ; and as he, too, very leisurely plodded his 
way into the inside of the house — he continued his egotis- 
tical account of himself. 

" My fut is complainin' agin the road, an' my bones is 
grumblin' agin the weather ; an' I can't stop anywhere at 
all — an' I'm always goin' about over an' hether — an' I don't 
see any business I have goin' about anywhere — no, no 
more business nor a starred bee in a fallow-field." And at 
these words his voice died away in the distance. 

"They're purshuin' me over an' hether, an' here an' 
there, an' through the bogs, an' across the hills, an' over 
the river, an' into the thick woods — they're purshuin' me 
ever an' ever." 

These words were volubly uttered by a new-comer. He 
was a middle-sized, and more than middle-aged person, 
wearing a battered and broken straw hat, of which the 
very wide brim flapped far down his face ; a flaming old 
plush scarlet-colored waistcoat, hanging half off his person, 
m ribbons ; a small-clothes to match ; a tattered soldier's 
coat, of the bygone taste, when long, full skirts, and 
abundance of tape flourishing over cuffs, lapels, and collar, 
were excellent military fashion. Stockings he had none ; 
and when he moved, his brogues slipped up and down. 

Once more the hatchway unclosed, and this gentleman 
entered, and also passed away through the shop, walking 



FATHER CONNELL 151 

very hastily, bending his head and eyes downwards, and 
still declaring, how much and how deviously he was "pur- 
shoo'd." 

And there was yet another visitor ; one clad coarsely, 
but not in tatters or patches ; for his dress — although very 
old, appeared to have been kept together with the greatest 
diligence of needle and thread, and seemed the relic of 
former respectability ; his pale, spare face, was solemn and 
serious, as if his mind were always absorbed in deep calcu- 
lation ; and he entered with his arms closely folded across 
his breast. 

He did not greet our hospitable friend, as ingress was 
afforded to him ; but was silently pacing after the other 
visitors, when the little proprietor of the house addressed 

"him. 

" Three barrels, seventeen stones, at two-pence farthing 
half-farthing a stone?" the man stopped suddenly, looked 
straight before him only for a few seconds, compressing 
his lips into a mere line, and then answered, " fifteen and 
two-pence half-penny," and onward he pursued his way. 

The last arrival on this particular evening was a creature 
of very low stature, having a soldier's stock under his 
neck, a boy's jacket on his body, and such a mass of rags 
tied with twine round his nether limbs, that he was obliged 
to labor hard whenever he chose to put them in motion. 

This curiosity made many hideous grimaces and gesticu- 
lations to the door-keeper, who, for the last time opening 
the hatchway, and pointing inwards allowed the deaf and 
dumb fool to pass out of bis shop. 

He was scarcely gone, when a tall, well-limbed, and very 
handsome youth, vaulted over the half-door and stood, 
half laughing, before our benevolent friend* 

" Ah, Ned, I'm glad you're come back ; go behind the 
counter now, and look over the day's accounts." The lad 
cheerfully obeyed, his master follwing him. 

" What red spots are those on your cheeks, sir f ques- 
tioned Ned, before they engaged in their task. 

" Oh ! Ned, what would they be but fairy blows ? for 
two long hours and more that I was looking over the door, 
the ' good people' never stopped sthriking me — just like as 
if big buUetts were hitting me all over the face and should- 
-look, Ned— here's the way they went on at me — " 



152 FATHER CONNELL. 

He shut his little plump fist, protruded the knuckle of 
its middle finger, and as a practical illustration of how the 
fairy blows had been inflicted, began to punch away at his 
apprentice as fast as he could with that particular knuckle. 

" Hugh, hugh, hugh — here's the way they went at me— " 
accompanying every punch with a " hugh ; " and he did 
punch so quickly and so resolutely into Ned's face and fore* 
head, that the latter was obliged laughingly to cry out for 
quarter. 

"Oh, sir, that's enough : I now comprehend right well 
how they went on at you ; " and he endeavored to avoid 
one 



what natural philosophers would call a demonstration by 
experiment JEtat his master, suddenly seizing him by the 
collar with his disengaged hand, continued to punch on, 
until he lost his breath from the real fatigue of his 
occupation. 

And a light here begins to break in upon us. Notwith- 
standing the arbitrary title conferred on him by yellow 
George, the little personage before us was indeed no other 
than Nick M'Grath— -poor Atty Fennell's " buffalo-man," 
who exhibited some of the manners of that animal at the 
Charitable Society, upon the evening when, most fatally for 
himself, Atty presided over the assembly. 

" Yes, that's the pay they went on at me, Ned," he re- 
sumed at last, getting quiet from mere lack of breath and 
strength. 

" And on my word, they must have smarted you pretty 
well, sir." 

"Oh ! I'm black and blue from them, Ned." 

"And no wonder, sir, if they worked so hard," and he 
rubbed his own face over and over with his extended hand, 
"but why didn't you go away from the door, and so 
escape ? " 

" No, no, Ned, no : 'tis always the best to let the 'good 
people ' have their own way ; if you thry to stop 'em they'll 
wither you up some time or other, 'tis the right plan not to 
stir hand or foot agin them; and whenever they come 
across you, Ned, take care not to vex 'em by doing any- 
thing else." 

" I'll be as civil as smooth water to them, sir." 

" Do, Ned, do, or the Heavens only knows what might 
happen ;" and with this business-like advice, Nick M'Grath 



FATHER CONNELL. lit 

retired to his little "parlor, kitchen, and all," to warm him- 
self, take his glass of punch, sweetened with molasses from 
his own little oil and color shop ; and when that had beem 
imbibed, to say his prayers preparatory to going to bed, 
with his back to the fire. 



CHAPTER XVIL 



Ned, left in the shop to regulate the day's accounts, see 
that his cash was all right, and everything in order, could 
not help soliloquizing — 

" And on my word, Master Neddy, you richly deserve, 
after all, the knuckling you have iust got; — 'twas some- 
thing like what is called, in fine English, retributive justice ; 
what a simple, poor man! — We well knew he would lay all 
the blame to the fairies, and never suppose that his own 
hopeful apprentice, and one or two scapegraces like him, 
were his tormentors; kind-hearted little creature! 'tis 
a pity to play tricks on you — and yet you tempt a body to 
it. 

In fact, the fairy blows had been given by soft clay balls, 
impelled through an old gun-barrel, a sport at which Ned 
and his friends alluded to, took great delight, and in which 
they had, from constant practice, become excellent marks- 
men; an assertion that recent evidence will doubtless 
render very credible. 

He was busily engaged finishing his day's tot, his face 
bent intently towards his account-book, when a low gentle 
voice murmured very near to him: "Masther Neddy 
PennelL" 

He suddenly looked up. A tall female, envelvoped in. 
fche usual dark blue cloak, stood immediately opposite to 
him, on the other side of the counter. One hand and arm 
of this figure, quite bare, were visible outside the cloak, in 
order that its wearer might hold its hood closely gathered 
over her face ; and no arm could be rounder, and more 
beautifully proportioned than was that one ; while the hand, 
though red, was small, plump, and with tapering fingers. 



164 FATHER CONNELL. 

They both hinted, moreover, that their owner must be a 
very young girL 

" Well, n y dear?" questioned Ned. 

"I have some words to spake to you, young man," 
answered a sad, musical voice, still in a very low tone, and 
indeed only half heard within the folds of the impervious 
hood. 

" Out with them, my pet; and let a body see your face, 
won't you ?" 

He moved his hand towards the hood. 

The person stepped back out of his reach. 

" That's not the way to make me tell you anything, sir," 
she said. 

" Why so? Tou say you want to speak with me, and yet 
won't let me see your face? Come, come, my dear, I can 
carry on no such mysterious conversation in an honest 
man's house ; that face I must see, or — " he was about to 
vault across the counter, when an earnestly whispered 
caution stopped him. 

" Hould yer hand, young man 1 I will let you see my face 
an' welcome ; but not here, nor at the present time. It 
might be a sore thing for both of us, if I let go the hood 
of my cloak in this place. I have words to spake with you, 
I say over again, ay, and there's as much as life an' death 
in them words ; but I won't spake them to you now, no 
more than I will let you see my face now." 

" Life and death, good girl I Pooh 1 you must be a fool, 
whatever kind of a face you have on you. What do you 
mean ?" He was again putting himself in motion ; she 
went on rapidly in sharp whispers. 

"For the Lord's sake, don't come next or nigh me!" 
Her head hastily turned in the direction of tne half-door. 
" Och, och 1 there is eyes upon me 1 I see one abroad, dark 
as it is, watchin' me close I don't stir, I bid you — nor speak 
a word to me — nor seem to take notice o' me at all — but 
listen, listen 1 I'm in possession of a knowledge that con- 
sarns your life — an' I am here, at the risk of my own life, 
to thry an' save yours — so meet me this very night, an' as 
soon as you can, for both our sakes. You know Joan Fla- 
herty's house in the grush* o' houses on Gallows Green — 
meet me there, an' be sure you take a roundabout an' a 

* A scattered handful of anything. 



FATHER CONNELL. 155 

crooked road to it, that no livin' sowl may guess you'll be 
on the road to it Meet me in Joan Flaherty's house, I 
sav, an* it's there I'll tell you my words — an' it's there 111 
take the hood from my face too, for I don't want to hide 
the face from yon ; och, no ! nor the heart neither — now 
God be wid you — an' for this wide world's wealth don't fail 
uie!" 

Before Ned Fennell could reply, she had bounded like a 
fawn into the street. He now really vaulted across the 
counter, and, with as much agility as herself, followed her. 
But the almanac moonlight out of doors, completely baf- 
fled his attempts to catch a glimpse of her in any direction ; 
and a moment's thought curbed his fleet foot, in its instinc- 
tive start — like the pawing of a spirited horse, eager for 
his journey — to race after the unknown visitor. A whole- 
some recollection of duties to be yet gone through at home, 
also helped to keep him for the present quiet. 

So he returned into the dingy little shop, quite finished 
his accounts, and then fell to barring, bolting, and locking, 
for the night 

"You're done there, Ned, my good boy, ain't you?" ques- 
tioned his master's kind, little, cracked voice, from his 
unseen back-parlor. 

" Quite, sir," answered Ned, as he shot the last bolt. 

" Come in here then, and take a lantern, and go and 
count the fools." 

Ned obeyed. "Counting the fools," was one of his 
nightly occupations, to be attended to as strictly as any 
other of his responsibilities. 

To the rear of the small house was a small yard, and to 
one side of this yard was a hayloft, gained by a step-ladder; 
other buildings around it, serving as store-houses, for the 
large stock of oil, pitch, tar, turpentine, and other combusti- 
ble materials, having to do with Nick M'Grath's thriving 
business, as an oil and color merchant In the hay-loft all 
the wandering and houseless fools, idiots, and deranged per- 
sons, whom we have seen enter the little man's shop, were 
now beginning to nestle down until morning, and Nick 
M'Grath, for a particular purpose, though a usual one, 
wished to ascertain distinctly of how many such lodgers he 
could call himself the host and landlord. 

Ned Fennell accordingly stepped in among them. With 



156 FATHER CONNELL. 

all of them, except one, he had previously been well ac- 
quainted—this one, however, had been bat twice in the 
caravansary; and was the individual who complained so 
much, and so ceaselessly of being "purshooM." As Ned 
now passed through the assembly of miserable beings, 
addressing or replying to them, each in his own dialect, he 
was much struck with the quantity of witless words, strung 
together by the new-comer ; and once, as the man glanced 
up at him, from under the broad, flapping tyim of his old 
straw hat, Ned's mind suddenly started, as it were, and a 
most disagreeable feeling came over him, which he could 
neither account for nor define. It was, however, a true 
feeling, although not warranted by any process of ratioci- 
nation — well grounded instinct, far beyond, at that mo- 
ment, all the pretensions of reason. 

" Seven of them to-night, sir," said Ned to his master, 
as he returned from the inspection. 

" All the betther, Ned, the more the betther ; the more 
fools in the house, the more luck to the house — here, Nelly 
Breehan — bring the bread and the milk ; seven half-loaves 
in the basket, and seven pints of milk in the can. There's 
seven of them to-night, Nelly — so, get their supper quick." 

Nelly Breehan soon obeyed her master's orders; and 
Nick M'Grath, having put on his exceedingly low-crowned 
hat over his brown scratch wig, and after having buttoned 
up to his chin the snuff-colored surtout, which reached 
from that chin to his very heels, took the lantern in his 
hand, and went, followed by Ned with the provisions, up 
and into the hay-loft 

Its tenants were quickly astir. The gigantic, half-naked 
figure, who had first entered the house, was now also the 
first person to scramble for his supper. He had quite bur- 
rowed into the hay, and came galloping forward on all* 
fours. 

" A-rodge, a-rodge," he bellowed out — "give me — give- - 
give — " and he snatched half a loaf, made a nearly success- 
ful grasp at another, and then fiercely attacked the milk- 
can, the contents of which he would most likely have dashed 
about the loft, had not yellow George, the caustic idiot, 
charged forward to the rescue. 

"Go-long, you omadhawn" he said, approaching the 
point of his fore-finger to Mickle'a very eyelashes, while 



FATHER CONNBLL. 157 

his red, Utile eyes glowed — "111 ran you through, you 
beggin' bochack--by the vartue of our oath, I'll run you 
through, you big nothin' !" 

His fierce glance, and terrible threat, seemed to produce 
an instantaneous effect on the ravenous giant, who, twisting 
round still on all-fours, and crying out — "oh ah! oh ah!— 
a-rodge, a-rodge— oh! ah! oh!" darted back into his den 
of hay. 

" There's no demand, Budgy Donally V George then in- 
quired, ere he would receive his own proffered portion of 
supper — meaning thereby, that he was under no obligation 
for the food — and it may be noticed here, by the way, that 
poor George used to give a new name, out of his own head, 
to every person of his acquaintance, the moment such per- 

""*" je — ' L "~^is eye, and never afterwards did he forget 

cease to apply it to its object Heaven only 
iat partial remembrances of former associa- 
his estimation, the fitness of the name to 
*rhaps — for George had not always been a 
e inexplicable confounding of two individuals 
of them seen and known in bygone days; 
indeed it would be but waste of time to try 
ir a solution of the puzzle, 
demand, Budgy Donally?" 
, George," answered Nick M'Grath. 
demand, Beauguard ?" addressing Ned Fen- 
ire a demand, George—" George sprang at 

ou beggar — you lie; well give cakes and 
»y vartue o' my oath well throw you cakes 
>re's no demand on the provisions, Beau* 

Gtaorge, all free." 

you cakes an' wine — an' 111 get you the mess 

it, Beauguard — an' I'll fix you m my uncle's 

, ov Donally, where you'll have lashens galore—'' 

and George sat down on the hay, to munch his bread, and 
sip his muk decorously. 

" Here, take this, poor boy," said Nick M'Grath to the 
suffering youth who had been " burned wid the frost" 
"Idon t see what it is that brings me here, poor boy like 



158 FATHER CONNELL. 

me, that's entirely burned wid the frost : I don't see that 
I'm of any use to anybody, no more nor a bit of wet brown 
paper ; no by the good troth — " thus he whined as he ac- 
cepted his supper ; and then he retired with it into a corner 
and there went on rocking his body to and fro, for every 
bit and sup he took. 

" * A dhrop o' the crathur will make us glad ; 
Too much o' the crathur will make us mad ; 
But father an' mother, 
And sister an' brother, 
Will all take a dhrop in their turn. ' 

"An* that's a good song, I believe," cried Paddy Moran, 
after he had finished his melody — his voice, whether he 
sang poetry or spoke prose, sounding as if it came bub- 
bling through jelly. And then he took up another stray 
verse — 

" ' Och ! mavrone that ever I married ! 
It laves me here to sigh an' to moan, 
Weepin' an' wailin', an' rockin' the cradle, 
An' plaisin' a child that is none o' my own. 9 

"And that's a bit of another good song, I'm thinkin'," 
and Faddy jerked his head from shoulder to shoulder, at- 
tentively addressing his finger-nails, as if they were the 
judges to decide whether his songs were good or bad ; and 
then he began what he called a dance, wheeling round and 
round, or jumping upwards on one spot as fast as he could, 
like a dancing dervise. 

Dick, the. calculating fool, took his supper with the most 
impressive gravity, having first shaken hands in silence 
with his two helpers. The deaf and dumb idiot distorted 
his face into very villanous expressions of glee, as he ac- 
cepted his; and the new-comer jabbered away on the 
topic on his being hunted and "purshoo'd" everywhere 
he went. 

Paddy Moran, who had sung and danced, according to 
his usual mode, an application for relief, now also accepted 
his rations, but only passed them from obc of his hands to 
another without tasting them. He had supped before, and 
had now no wish for food; and whenever such was the 
case, Paddy would either give away or throw away the 
victuals which his stomach did not for the moment require. 



FATHER CONNELL. 159 

So he jerked himself about the loft, as if considering what 
was to be done with his own share of bread and milk. 

As he passed the lair of the ever ravenous Mickle, that 
poor human beast thrust his head upward through the 
hay, and glaring intensely, though harmlessly, at Paddy, 
exclaimed— 

" Murther, a-rodge ! give, give !" 

" Here, then, ate ! — ate this very minute or 111 murther 
you — ate, I bid you!" answered Paddy Moran; "ate an' 
fforinV — ate an' dhrink." 

He began tearing, as fast as he could, the loaf into by no 
means little bits. The mouth of the huge head gaped, and 
was instantly ready for them. Paddy thrust three or four 
pieces, one after another, into the cavity, and then, raising 
his noggin of milk as high in the air as he could, poured 
the liquid upon them, fiercely threatening all the while that 
if Mickle did not "ate, ate," and "dhrink, dhrink," as 
quickly as was humanly possible, he would inflict upon 
him some grievous bodily harm; and Mickle, evidently 
frightened, obeyed him as well as he could. . 

Yellow George, having now disposed of his evening meal, 
walked about the loft, his arms folded, and something ap- 
. proaching to an unnatural smile round his mouth, while his 
little piggish eyes twinkled with insane sharpness of meaning. 

"That was a great race you rode at the Corragh, Square 
Beeves," he said, addressing " the boy that was burned wid 
the frost ;" " by the vartue of my oath it was a great race 
you rode— the day that you had the tassals to your cap, 
an' the pay-green jacket, an' the doeskin on." 

"In throth," answered Square Beeves, "I do go moping 
along, an' I never know where I'm goin' at all — I do be 
goin along, along like an owl of a sunny day, an' I do be 
knockin' myself agin this thing an' that thing — an' no more 
good in me than there's in a hen on the wather." 

"I gie ye my oath, Beauguard," resumed Yellow George, 
addressing Ned Fennell, " I gie ye my oath, I seen noine 
hundred an' nointy-noine like you, cut down by the man 
with the pepper-and-salt coat at Jack Archer's." 

"Faith, and the man with the pepper-and-salt coat 
wasn't idle, George." 

"It was the time my uncle an' myself was over with the 
Prince o' Wales — the time we were clarion' for him." 



160 FATHER CONXELL, 

"O, I know, George ; the time the Prince o* Wales had 
you and jour uncle whipped for thieving." 

" Yon lie, you Roman vagabon', there's none of the breed 
that come up on our floor to be called a thief — I'll run you 
through by Herins, you bochach" 

" There s no where I go but they're purshooin' me, up an' 
down, an' backard and forard ; an' goin' wid the wind or 
agin the wind, they're always an' ever a purshooin' o' me," 
gabbled the new come fooL 

George turned round and twinkled his red eye at the 
fellow, scanned him closely, and to hint the insignificance 
of the person he inspected, said: " Twould be hard to strip 
a breeches off of a Dare thigh." 

He then suddenly seemed struck at something very in- 
teresting in this man ; he poked out his chin, and twinkled 
his eyes at him more quickly than ever, and extended his 
mouth from corner to corner, almost across his face, while 
he added : — 

"Hah ! it was a bitther cowld day the first day you were 
hanged, Johnny Bafferty." 

Ned Fennell now also fixed his eyes on the fool, though 
he could not yet arrive at any distinct conclusion about 
him ; in fact, George's new name for him threw our Mend 
Ned much off his guard, to say nothing of the downcast 
face being still quite hidden by the old straw hat. 

" An' the Prince o' Wales," continued George, "sent my 
uncle an' myself to find out how you made your escape 
from the second hangin', Johnny, an' we found out that it 
was the devil carried you oft; Johnny Bafferty — the Bomans 
is sure of heaven, Beauguard — we only thry — by the vartue 
o' my oath, one Protestan' is as strong as three Bomans ; 
bad time with the wavers, Budgy Donally, all broth an' no 
mate." 

At this moment, by judicious manoeuvring around 
George's Johnny Bafferty, Ned Fennell became positive 
that he saw before him the detested Bobin Costigan. His 
first impulse was to pounce on the villian, even for whose 
cruelty to the little girl, Mary Cooney, still well remem- 
bered, Ned felt towards him the greatest indignation and 
loathing ; but another identification of another person now 
suddenly took place in his mind : he believed that the girl 
who had made an appointment with him for that evening 



FATHER CONNELL. 161 

in Joan Flaherty's cabin, among the shower of houses, was 
no other than that very Mary Cooney ; and his passionate 
inclination to knock Costigan down, and bind him, and drag 
him to gaol, was replaced by a great anxiety to speak with 
the beggar girl, and by a resolve not to take any decided 
step against her atrocious tyrant until after he should have 
done so. He did not indeed reason himself into this de- 
termination, nor could he pretend to himself that it was 
a wise thing, after all, to leave the old robber and gaol- 
breaker free under his master's root even for the shortest 
possible space of time. A great wish to keep his appoint- 
ment, chiefly indeed, if not wholly and solely, shaped Ned's 
conduct. At all events, assuming as much unconsciousness 
as he could, of the fearful discovery he had just made, Ned 
Fennell rather hurriedly convoyed Nick M'Grath down 
the step ladder of the hay-loft, and then, unobserved by 
the old man, but not by Nelly Breehan, his housekeeper, 
raced at good speed towards Gallow's Green. 



CHAPTER XVIH. 



"Is there any unfit feeling in the hurry I am in to meet 
this young girl?" questioned Ned Fennell of himself, as he 
approached the shower of houses. His boyish acquaint- 
anceship long ago, with poor little Mary Cooney, her grati- 
tude for his school-boy chivalrous protection, and for his 
scrap of bread and sip of milk; the loveliness of her 
features and person, even at that time : her parting from 
him, and the earnest kiss which accompanied it ; all this 
came to his recollection, and as he proposed to his own 
heart the query just recorded, he suddenly stopped a few 
minutes in his speed, to follow up the inward investigation. 

Did he seek, in maturer years, to take advantage of 
Mary's early interest for him, and which, from some part 
of her conversation in Nick M'Grath's shop, as well as 
from the soft tones of her voice, he told himself still re- 
mained unabated? Should the untaught and primitive 
creature, in her approaching interview with him, unwit- 



102 FATHER CONNELL. 

tangly and sinlessly overstep any of the bounds of feminine 
reserve and self-protection, would he countenance her mis- 
take ? " No !" He stamped his foot smartly on the ground. 
"No, Helen!" was his heart's answer, addressed to the 
young lady whose name he mentioned, just as if she herself 
had been present, and had tartly catechised him on the 
subject " No, Helen : my love for you charms me like a 
spell, against even a thought of harm towards poor Mary 
Cooney ; or, even if it did not, even if I loved you not — I 
hope — oh, I do firmly hope and trust, that — wild as many 
people call me — I should still be able to act as I ought to 
act, for poor Mary's own sake, and out of love and fear of 
my God first of all ; no, no, I thank Him, I have not yet 
learned to "laugh at my catechism, so come along then, 
Master Neddy!" 

His foot scarcely touched the threshold of Joan Fla- 
herty's house, when the trebly patched door of the hotel 
was suddenly, though cautiously pulled open on the inside, 
and a tall, slight girl closely confronted him, in the almost 
perfect darkness at that end of her apartment. 

" Tour name, good girl ?" whispered the visitor. 

" Och ! what 'ud it be bud Mary Cooney/' she whispered 
in her turn. 

"I thought so; poor child! poor girl! and how have 
you been these many, many years ?" 

He extended his hand. She took it in hers, trembling 
all over. 

" Before I say anything else to you, I bid God bless you ; 
an' be good to you, sir — for I see you're still as tenther- 
hearted, an' as pityin' to me as when you were the little 
gorsoon that shared his own bit an' sup wid the poor, 
shoolin' little girl, an' pelted down Darby Cooney for her— • 
och ! och ! ail it's often an' often I thought about you 
sence that time ; Darby Cooney's stick was never over 
me — an' och, sure that was every day — that I did not say 
to myself, if the beautiful an' the tenther-hearted little boy 
was here, he'd help the lone orphan." 

" And you never said a truer word in your life, Mary ; 
jmt tell me, do you still live with that old scoundrel ?" 

" Och, an' sure I do— how can I help it ? It's sore agin 
my nature an' mj thoughts, an' my wishes, but how can I 
help it ? I wouldn't be next or nigh him if I could help it ; 



FATHER C0NNELL. 163 

no in good troth I wouldn't; an 9 that I may be delivered 
safe oat of his hands, is my prayer, mornin', noon, an' 
night — come this way, an' 111 tell you." 

Continuing to hold Ned's hand, she led him to the fire 
at the further end of the cabin ; lighted a greased rush, 
and stuck it in some damp yellow day against the wall, 
placed the only seat in the establishment, a rickety, three- 
legged stool, in front of the fire ; made him sit down on it, 
and then chose her own place on the floor, sitting close to 
Edmund's knee. 

"But surely, my poor girl, you are now old enough, and 
grown enough to do something for yourself, and now, at 
least, you ought to separate from the old robber?" 

"Och hone, och hone, where could I go? an' who'd 
hould the arm over me, to save me from Darby Cooney? 
Och, he'd find me wherever I'd go ; an' he'd murther me, 
muither me I": 

She inclined her head to Ned's knee ; he saw that her 
tears were flowing fast 

"Darby Cooney," she continued whispering, "Darby 
Cooney is wickeder nor ever he was ; an', not to spake of 
him at all, there's another hand over me now, a'most as 
heavy as his own hand. An' the poor little child ! Do 
you remember the poor little babby I had on my knees, the 
morning you came in to me, on this very dure— -on this 
very spot, to share your little breakfast wid me?" 

" I do indeed remember the wretched creature." 

" Well That little babby died in my arms ; och hone, 
och hone, I cried my plenty o' the salt tears over the little 
corpse ; for that little babby used to thry an 9 hide itself in 
my bosom, when Darby Cooney would roar at it ; an' I 
was o' the mind that it had the love for me, an' the love 
for it was in my own heart, surely J och, I cried bitther 
over it — good troth, I did." 

She became more agitated, but went on 

"The little babby died, an' sore did I miss it I wan 
now left alone entirely, entirely, with Darby Cooney, an' 
no livin' thing to care for me ; and och it was then I used 
to bring to mind, over an' over, that the little babby an* 

irourself were the only two cratures that ever had the love 
or me. Yis — there was a poor little doggy, that used to 
go about wid us on our thravels ; an' it would lie at my 



164 FATHER C0NNRLL. 

feet, to warm 'em in the cowld nights, and lick them an* 
my hands all over, and stand forenent me, on the road, an 
wag its tail, an' look np into my eyes ; an' I thought that 
poor brute crature had a liking for me too — an' well in my 
heart I was fond of it, in return ; but Darby Cooney killed 
it — when he saw the love we had for one another, he killed 
it wid one blow of his stick ov a mornin' when he was 
batin' me, and when the little dog snarled at him for the 
same ; och, ay, he killed id at one blow ! And things that had 
no life in 'em I used to thry an' love too, bud he wouldn't 
let me ; the handsome posies in the fields, an' in the 
ditches, an' the hedges along the roads ; I used to pull 
'em, an' hould 'em in my hand, an' look at 'em, and smell 
to 'em, and think they made my life a little happier. Bud 
he would take them from me too, an' throw 'em away, or 
stamp his feet on 'em, an' tell me they made me idle, an' 
curse them an' me, and threaten to bate me well if ever I 
minded 'em agin. Bud och, it's talking to no purpose I 
am ; I have other words to say to you — the words that I 
promised to say." 

" God help you, poor girl !" said Ned FennelL 

" Amin, an' amin, God help me." 

"Whose hand is the other hand, that is now over you, 
along with Darby Cooney's ?" 

" Do you call to mind the bould, wicked, young boy, 
that was sittin' at this fire, the same mornin' I spoke 
about, awhile sence ?" 

" Yes, I recollect the promising young gentleman welL" 

"He's a big boy now, an' a sthrong boy, an' more 
wicked now; he's sthrong, an' he hates me, an' hates the 
ground I thread on — ay, an' hates every Hvin' crature, I 
believe, the same that he hates me — he hates even Darby 
Cooney, tho' they're all an' ail together ; an' his hand it is 
that's as heavy over me now, as Darby Cooney's own hand 
ever was." 

" Was that the fellow who watched you, while you were 
speaking with me a little while since, in the town below?" 

" It was his own sell Darby Cooney and that boy are 
afeard that if I went from 'em I'd turn informer on 'em ; an' 
the other day they both swore out — oaths terrible enough 
to rise the roof o' the house, that they'd have my blood, 
and berry my corpse where no one could ever find it ; and 



FATHER CONnLL. 166 

that no church-yard sod should covor it if I went from 
em. 

'-Ton must leave them, for all that," said Ned thought- 
fully. 

She looked up into his face eagerly, her blue eyes still 
running over with tears. For the first time since he had 
entered the hovel, he now observantly regarded her feat- 
ures. They were ten times more beautiful than in child- 
hood they had been, and her person and limbs, though 
poorly and even scantily clothed, were of exquisite propor- 
tion. 

"How very like you, Helen I" soliloquised Ned; "how 
very like you, my own Helen 1" 

His own Helen ? and Gaby SfNearv not knowing a word 
about the matter? "Blur-an-agesl Ah, poor Ned, so 
much for your worldly wisdom. 

"Did I hear you rightly that timet" asked poor Mary 
Oooney, as she still looked up at him. 

" You did, my poor girL" 

"An' did you mane that it's yourself that would make 
me go away from Darby Oooney T 

"Yes, indeed, I meant that, Mary." 

" Och, the Heavens reward you for the word, and put 
the good luck in vour road, for ever an' ever 1" 

She gently took his hand, which hung down by the side 
of the three-legged stool, placed it in both of hers, and 
continued— 

" It calls to my mind, stronger nor ever, the words yov 
said to me, an' that I ever an' always thought of, from thai 
day to this — the mornin' you came in here, many's the 
long, weary year ago, to give me the good, warm milk, and 
the good, white bread." 

"And what words were they, Marv?" 

" Och, shore you tould me, that when you'd grow up, an 9 
be a young man, an' have money as your father used to 
have it, you'd share your dinner wid me, as well as your 
breakfast ; an' that, still an' ever you'd let me be near you, 
an' save me from Darby Cooney's hand. An 9 now you're a 
young man, an 9 now you have the money, by coorse ; an' 
now, I'll come to you, from Darby Cooney ; och, Til watch 
ever you, an 9 Til run on your errands to the world's end j 
an 9 I'll do everything in your house, to make you like xn% 



166 FATHER CONNBLL. 

an' to make you have the happy heart ; an Pll love you as 
well, och ay, as well as ever I loved the poor, little babby ; 
an' — " 

" My poor girl, listen to me. I will take you from Darby 
Cooney. I can do that at least. You snail not be his 
poor, terrified slave for a day longer. Do you remember 
the good old priest, that came in here, the last night I saw 
you?" 

" I remember a very good ould man comin' in, an 9 axin' 
me a great many things ; but I didn't know before now he 
was a priest ; I didn't b'lieve id, I mane, for Darby Coo- 
ney tould me he was a bad man, c a big ould divil,' he said; 
on 9 och, it's often he tould me the same afore, of other good 
men that I b'lieved were priests ; good men, that used to 
meet us on the roads, when the crowds would be comin' 
out of the house that they called the chapel o' God — but 
Darby Cooney used to call it 'ould Nick's house,' an tell 
me if I went into it the priests would lay hould on me, an' 
drag me to the gallows, an' hang me ; an' then I used to 
ax turn, what was the mainin' of the chapel o' God — " Ned 
Fennel! interrupted her, shuddering. 

" Stop, Mary, stop ; tell me no more of those things, and 
not a word more about Darby Cooney. We'll never speak 
of him any more at all; well try and forget him, and 
everything he ever told you, and everything about him. 
But listen to me now. Listen to me well, poor Mary ; I 
will try and make that good old priest your friend ; and 
111 be your friend myself, Mary ; and together we will take 
you from Darby Cooney, and keep the arm over your head, 
to save you from his threats ; and the word I spoke to you, 
when I was a little boy, I will keep with you now, and to 
the day of my death, or to the day of your death, yes, my 
poor girl, you shall indeed share my breakfast, and share 
my dinner, and share my purse too, as long as it pleases 
God Almighty to give me a breakfast, or a dinner, or a 
sixpence for myself; and that good old priest, Mary, will 
tell you what the Chapel of God is, and make you know 
what to say, and what to do, in God's chapel, that so you 
may grow to be good, and happy, and have the whole 
world love you ; and I will love you too, Mary. I will love 
you with a brother's tenderest love ; and, poor child — H 

Ned's own voice here failed him, and he stopped speak- 



FATHER CONNELL. 167 

ing. Her eyes had been fixed upon his face all the time he 
was addressing her. She now saw his quivering lip, as she 
heard his broken tones, and suddenly falling on her knees, 
and clasping her hands, while she still looked up at him, 
tried to utter the gratitude, the love, and the happiness of 
her hitherto miserable young heart; but the effort was 
vain ; her beautiful lips only moved in silent spasms ; her 
beautiful throat only worked in unison with them ; and, at 
last, she covered her face with her hands, and sobbed and 
wept, loudly and passionately. 

" And I must leave you now, Mary," resumed Ned Fen- 
neD, " and the first thing I shall do is to go to that good 
priest — " She started up, clapping her hands, and inter- 
rupted him. 

"Och, yes, yes; quit me! quit me! it's only too long 

Jrou are here ! an' all my fault, all my fault ! See what the 
ove for you made me do ! an' that's not the way the love 
ought to show itself — bud the love put the danger out o' 
my head — the Lord forgi' me for it ! Bun home, run your 
ways home! Darby Cooney is within your doors this 
night — an' he's within 'em for no good! Och, Darby 
Cooney would think no more o' killin' you, or any other 
Christian crature, nor he'd think o' killin' a black keeroguet* 
Make speed home ; the man o' the house where my ten- 
ther-hearted boy stops, has money — an' Darby Cooney is 
gone to take that money; an' the one he has made as 
wicked as himself is on the watch for him. Make speed 
home, I say ! Make speed, an' lay hands on Darby Coo- 
ney ; an' hould him fast, fast, fast ! Be bowld an' sthrong, 
an may the Heavens be your safeguard ! an' don't mind 
goin' to that good priest to-night, or we both may suffer 
from it ; only make speed home — make speed home." 

" Good night, then, my poor girl." He again held out 
his hand ; she took it in one of hers, but threw the other 
round his neck, and kissed his lips, as she had done many 
years ago, at their first parting ; and Ned Fennell received 
her kiss, without infringing one jot upon the resolutions he 
had formed before entering the cabin. 

But he did not take her advice, to go straight home, 
without calling on Father Connell, and in so doing Ned 
was wrong, almost fatally wrong. 

•A credi-fl of black beetfe 



168 FATHER CONMSLL. 



CHAPTER XIX. 



Oub disreputable old acquaintance had spent more than 
one night before the present one, in Nick M'Grath's hay- 
loft, and he did not, for the purpose which had brought 
him there, remain idle or unobservant. He contrived to 
discover that the kitchen window which looked into the 
yard, could from the circumstance of its turning on 
hinges, be opened by pushing it inward, provided its little 
bolt were first slipped back ; and again, that as it admitted 
daylight through oiled paper, instead of glass, it would not 
be very difficult to get one's hand inside this frail barrier, 
and thereby undo the bolt, which to one side fastened the 
sash to the window-frame. He further found out, that 
Nelly Breehan had charge of the key of the hall-door, and 
that she used to place it every night in the salt-box over 
the kitchen fire ; nor did he allow himself to remain ignor- 
ant of the positions, in the little old house, of the sleeping 
apartments of Nick M'Grath, his apprentice, and his 
housekeeper. 

In Nick M'Grath's establishment, Nelly Breehan was 
just as much Ned Fennell's friend, as Peggy Molloy had 
been when he lived with Father Council ; the old woman 
would do anything for him. She would, for instance, lend 
him her latch-key on a night when he reckoned upon 
being out later than her master or herself could, accord- 
ing to their habits, afford to sit up for him; and only 
carefully latching the street door after him, and cautioning 
him to lock it carefully when he should come home, she 
would deposit her key in her salt-box ; and before retiring 
for the night, put a "red sod" in the kitchen grate, that, 
by its agency, he might not be in want of a lighted candle 
upon going to his own bedroom. And, indeed, it was 
Under favor of arrangements such as these here described, 
that upon this particular night Ned Fennell left home, for 
the shower of houses. 

He had not been very long absent, when, though in no 
great hurry, Robin Oostigan began to think it was time to 
commence certain planned operations. 

After Nick M'Grath had collected, among the fools in his 



FATHER CONNELL. 169 

hay-loft, the tin porringers in which their milk had been 
served to them, and, accompanied by Ned Fennell, had 
gone down the step-ladder, leaving them in the dark, the 
poor fellows, continued jabbering, each in his own peculiar 
fashion and idiom, for some considerable time. Costigan 
watched and listened to them attentively. One by one, a 
voice fell off from the great clamor of tongues ; and one by 
one they fell asleep— yellow George being the very last to 
do so, as was his latest breath — for that night at least — 
Costigan heard him mumble, evidently to Paddy Moran, 
who snored at his side — " Take off o' me, ye blackamoor's 
breed, take your feet off o' me — we're free — take oft^ or I'll 
run you through — by Herrins." 

Costigan, in the silence, or rather in the general snoring, 
which succeeded to the general babble, raised himself very 
cautiously and slowly, in his own lair, to a sitting position ; 
out of the bag which he had worn on his shoulder, he took 
a handful of woollen rags, and tied them round his feet ; 
first depositing his brogues in it ; and then, with a perfect- 
ly noiseless tread, descended the step-ladder, into the yard. 

Here one glance at the oiled paper of the kitchen- 
window informed him that he had been out in one of his 
calculations ; for that Nelly Breehan had not yet retired to 
bed. Stealthily approaching the window, and cautiously 
peeping through a little hole in one of its economical 
panes, he perceived that she must, however, soon go to her 
sleeping-chamber, as she was kneeling to her prayers, 
evidently in devout preparation for so doing. The beggar- 
man scowled at the old woman, but observed her closely. 
Before arising from her knees she piously clasped her 
hands and looked upwards ; he cursed her. 

She got up; puffed at the "red sod," to ascertain 
whether it was sufficiently ignited to allow her favorite to 
light his candle at it ; and while she did so, her own face 
glowed as brightly as did the " red sod " itself — and then 
she approached the kitchen-window, and laid her hand 
upon its sash. Costigan, fearing that she was about to 
come out into the yard, suddenly crouched down under the 
window, and when he had cleared it, hobbled — not at all 
afraid of alarming her by his footsteps — and squatted him- 
self in a remote and gloomy corner. But the housekeeper 
only shot the bolt of the window to its full extent Next, 



110 FATHER CONNBTX. 

she left the kitchen, to put a heavy bar aorces — as the old 
robber could well comprehend — the door which let into the 
yard ; and, finally, stopping with her apron a fit of chronio 
coughing which came on, in order that her master might 
not know she had been so long out of bed, she softly 
ascended to her dormitory in the garret. 

The small, dim window of her bed-room looked into the 
yard. From the corner in which he crouched, Robin 
Costigan knew it, and watched it closely. The incrusta- 
tions of dust and dirt upon it, served, like a dim screen, to 
show her actions only in black shadows, yet, even by those 
actions, so badly interpreted, he knew she was disrobing 
herself very leisurely, and he again muttered curses against 
the unconscious old spinster, because she took up so much 
time in her peculiar proceedings — by the way, she at that 
moment certainly not thinking that there could be any one, 
in the wide world, so much interested about them. 

At length, the little, dim window became black; the 
housekeeper had put out her candle, and was in bed. 
Robin stoop up, but still did not move from his corner ; on 
the contrary, be squeezed himself as closely as he could 
into it And, " the curse o' the ould divil be on her lyin' 
down," he cautiously growled, "what kep her from the 
sthraw, this night, of all nights o' the year ? May I never 
see the daylight, if I don't remember it to her." 

After waiting still a reasonable time, and judging that 
the old woman ought now to be fast asleep, he turned his 
observation towards the hay-loft. Thinking that he heard 
one of the fools muttering, he hollowed his hand, and put 
it to his ear. The night-blast eddied by him, and filling 
and whistling through hand and ear, incapacitated him 
from distinguishing any sound but that which it thus 
made. 

"Curses purshue the wind 1 " he hissed, making an im- 
potent attempt, as if to grasp and control it with his 
unoccupied hand: it whistled on, as if in laughter and 
scorn. 

Soon it lulled a little ; and again he bent his head down 
to listen for sounds from the hay-loft. But none came. 
At least, none of the kind he had anticipated. A loud 
chorus of inharmonious snoring was all that reached him. 
He noiselessly ascended the step-ladder, aud peeped in. 



FATHER CONNKLL. 171 

Not a blade of hay rustled. He again descended into the 
yard, and again approached the kitchen-window. Some 
one coughed inside the house. His practised ear soon 
discerned the direction whence the cough came. He raised 
his clenched fist, unlipped, with a grin, his hideous teeth, 
and inwardly said — 

"I'll pay you for this, too, you ould oolloch ! * 

The interruption was not renewed. Carefully and noise- 
lessly he now removed the oiled paper from the window, 
put in his arm, and with a dexterous and knowing ap- 
plication of finger and thumb, shot back the bolt The 
window then opened to the gentlest push of his hand ; he 
clambered up to it, and knelt upon the lower part of its 
frame. A piece of mortar fell from the top of the recess of 
the window, and crashed and rattled among some kitchen 
utensils placed on a table beneath. For a moment he be- 
came perfectly stilL Kneeling, as has been said, on the 
window frame, and also supporting himself by resting his 
hands and arms upon it, while his head and body crouched 
down and poked forward, not a muscle had motion except 
those of his eyes — and even his eyes could but glare, like 
those of a startled tiger, checked in his spring, into the 
deep darkness of the kitchen. 

But there came no stir through the house, to hint that 
the harsh and sudden noise had been heard by its inmates ; 
and very, very cautiously he proceeded to place one muffled 
foot on the table, having first felt about with it for an open 
spot where it might rest without causing fresh clatter. The 
next moment he was standing upon the table, on both feet ; 
and the next, on the middle of the kitchen floor, his ear 
intently watching the silence, and his eye the darkness 
around him. 

Every way satisfied with the observations of both senses, 
he next crept to the fire, groping with one foot before the 
other, and with both hands, before him and beside him, 
lest he might stumble over, or hit himself against some 
unseen object Here he again had recourse to the wallet 
slung over his shoulder. Extracting from it a small dark 
lantern, he took the candle out of this, and with cautious 
and thin drawn puffs at the "red sod" in the grate, soon 
had a light : one might imagine a sketch of Costigan's face, 
while he puffed at his sod ; its characteristic features ; the 



172 FATHER C0NNRLL. 

puckered action of his mouth, his down-turned eyes, with 
their scowling, overhanging brows— down-turned, because 
their glances were darted into the turf he held ; the mixed 
expression of eagerness, caution, malignity, and black pur- 
pose, legible over his whole visage ; while the portrait was 
lighted from underneath by the fierce ruddy glow of the 
sod, not more than a few inches removed from his lips. 

He raised the lid of the salt-box, and possessed himself 
of the key of the hall-door. He gained that door ; believ- 
ing it locked, turned the key in the lock without producing 
any effect, and for a moment stood baffled and confounded, 
and in no amiable humor, until by peering close he dis- 
covered his mistake. A few seconds after, the door was 
half opened, when, protruding his head and shoulders into 
the street, and glancing upward and downward, he whistled 
in so peculiar a key and manner that an uninitiated ear 
would be at a loss to decide whether the sound arose near 
or far off 

A small, small echo, and at the same time a perfect imi- 
tation of the whistle, floated through the stilled street ; and 
very soon after, a ragged, muscular, square-built lad, whose 
age you could not determine at a glance, was admitted 
by Robin Costigan into Nick M'Grath's quiet peaceable 
house. 

Robin softly put down the latch of the door again. His 
new come acquaintance was about to speak, but he shook 
his fist, snarling, and all but growling at him, and whis- 
pered into his very ear, " Stale afther me." 

The barefooted pupil accordingly followed his preceptor 
into the kitchen. Costigan produced another supply of 
woollen rags, handed them to him, and motioned him to 
sit on the floor and adjust them over his feet. 

" Can't I spake now ?" demanded the youth, as he con- 
plied with these instructions. 

" Yes, but spake low an' little." 

"I've news for you then, Darby Cooney. Wq. must run 
for it or we're lost." 

"Why? How so?" 

"Becase Mary Cooney is wid the 'prentice this present 
minit in Joan Flaherty's house, an' she's teUin' bun all 
about us." 

" Ha I by the mortial! How do you know thatf 



FATHER CONNELL 178 

"I aeon him abroad in the shop wid her, an' I followed 
him to Joan Flaherty's." 

" You did ?" He scowled on the lad as if it were he who 
had committed some great fault "You did, did you? 
You're quite shure?" 

"Ay, shure." 

" Long threatenin' comes at last, then," said Gostigan, in 
a low, slow, horrible tone ; "bud come, no more words now. 
There's work to do. Tie on, tie on, an' hurry, or 111 cripple 
you." 

" An' won't you run while the road is clear ?" 

"Let you do what I bid you, or you'll rue it as well as 
Mary Cooney. Hurry, I say. There, don't stir now till I 
come to you." 

He went to the hall-door, turned the key in the lock, and 
secured it about his own person. 

"Are you ready?" he asked, coming back into the 
kitchen. 

"I'm ready— but—" 

"Hould your prate, or — " there was another horrible 
threat, accompanied with terrible oaths. 

" Open your ear wide now, an' listen to me, fur your life 
— at the peril o' your life, mind ; do you hear ? Why don't 
you answer me?" He shook his scholar fiercely by the 
shoulders, and glared and grinned into his face, their feat- 
ures almost touching. 

"I'm listenin' hard." 

"Come here." Gostigan seized him by the arm, and 
hurried him over to the kitchen grate. "Do you see that 
red sod o' turf?" 

"I see id well" 

"Mind me then, I bid you ;" he applied his lips closely 
to the boy's ear, and communicated some orders in a whis- 
per, so close and fine that the opposite ear might almost 
be said to have scarcely heard it 

" Have you the right undherstandin' o' what I say ?" 

" I have." 

" You're positive sartin that you have ?" 

"I am. I'll give id back to you, an' shure that 'ud tell 
you whether I am or not ;" and in his turn he whispered a 
nearly soundless whisper into his master's ear. 

"Is that id?" 



174 FATHER CONNELL. 

" Ay, by the mortial, that's id. Let me see that yon | 
by ordhers right, or woe betide you. Here, take this." He 
placed the kitchen poker in the hand of his young colleague, 
and armed himself with the iron bar of its door. 

" Close afther me now, an* stale asy — asy, I tell you." 

Without the slightest noise from the tread of their feot, 
the pair mounted the stairs, Costigan holding his lantern 
sideways, in order that his follower might have the advan- 
tage of its light. 

They entered Ned FennelTs bed-room. The bed was 
unoccupied, and had not been lain in. 

" 'Tis a thruth, by — 1" muttered Costigan, grinding his 
set teeth. " No matther— " 

He turned, and still led the way onward. They gained 
the housekeeper's room. She was fast asleep, though her 
sleep seemed troubled, perhaps with some dream of danger. 
Costigan raised his bar m bom hands. She muttered some- 
thing; he paused one instant; he perfectly caught the 
words, "In the most holy and blessed name of — " and 
these words saved her from his hand. It was not pity ; it 
was not a return of human feeling to the heart of the des- 
perado, that stayed his uplifted arm; least of all could 
it have been a religious sentiment He afterwards said 
himself that it was a passing fright at something ; but 
whatever it was the old woman slept on, for the time, in 
peace. 

He lighted the candle she had extinguished, and placed 
it on the floor, at the end of her bed, to avoid startling her 
from her sleep by its glare ; and then he again whispered 
a short command to his pupil — 

" If she stirs, touch her here," he drew his finger in a 
line across her forehead, without however coming in con- 
tact with it — " hould id that way in your hands, an' keep it 
ready, an' watch her well." He poised the kitchen poker, 
so as perfectly to satisfy his own judgment, in both the 
hands of the less experienced practitioner — " keep well in 
your mind what I tould you in the kitchen, an' have your 
ears wide open for the whistle, an' do all your work well, 
for your life." 

Cautiously, but quickly, Robin Costigan stole out of the 
housekeeper's bed-chamber. The lad remained alone at 
her bed-side ; his weapon raised in both hands over his 



FAIHER CONNELL. 175 

right shoulder, and his eyes fixed in foil, and ghastly 
watchfulness, on the old woman's face. Yes, that boyish 
eye, which ought, at that moment, to have been closed in 
sweet and innocent slumber, or if awake at all, ought to 
have sparkled with the reflected merriment of a mind 
amused and at ease ; that boyish eye was distended with 
only the murderer's stony abstraction of purpose, while 
the youthful lips, instead of quivering to the laugh or 
carol of boyhood, were firmly closed in the expression 
of a deadly and unflinching resolve. 

A sudden crash sounded down stairs. The aged female 
started out of her sleep, and opened her eyes. They in- 
stantly encountered those which were watching her. A 
second glance made her understand what meant the figuxe 9 
with the raised poker, and the haggard, hellish face, which 
stood over her ; and she was about to sit up in bed, and 
had begun to scream, when one blow, descending on the 
exact spot over which Costigan had described the air- 
drawn line with his finger, made her perfectly motionless 
and quiet 

With the concentrated force of his whole young frame, 
the boy had inflicted that blow ; it was indeed, joined with 
the weight of his weapon, too much for him ; the poker 
jarred in his hands ; he unconsciously let it go ; it found 
its way to the foot of the bed, fell thence on the floor, and 
overthrew and extinguished the candle ; and he stood in 
complete darkness, with, he assured himself, the corpse of 
the human being he had just deprived of life. Terror, and 
horror of his own act fell on him. He trembled, his teeth 
chattered, his knees smote each other ; and, unable to stir 
a step, cold sweat flowed down his face. 

His master gained, meantime, the door of Nick M'Grath's 
bedroom ; and, as he had anticipated, found it fastened on 
the inside. But he did not hesitate, for an instant, forcibly 
to insert the iron bar between the lock and the door-jamb ; 
and then, with a single wrench, the door was burst open. 
It was the noise of this violence, which had startled Nelly 
Breehan from her sleep. 

" Who are you ? What do you want here ?" demanded 
Nick M'Grath of the ferocious intruder, as Costigan held 
his lantern over him. The old man was on his hands and 
knees, in bed, fumbling under the pillow. 



176 FATHER CONNBLL. 

M I want your money; an' there's no spare time fin 
talkin' — your money ! — hurry." 

"Ned Fennell! Ned Fennell! a robber 1 a robber here, 
Ned Fennell I" 

" Say that again, or cry out one word more, an' by the 
mortial, 111 chop you into pound pieces ! Come, hurry, I 
say. The kay of this desk in the corner ! Come ! hand it 
out here !" the villain interrupting himself with a " Hah !" 
now snatched at a waistcoat, which partly protruded from 
beneath the pillow. Nick M'Grath flung himself upon the 
article of dress, in the pocket of which was, indeed, the 
identical key required by Costigan ; and a struggle ensued 
between both ; Nick M'Grath again setting up his cries for 
Ned Fennell, as loudly as he could vociferate. 

" Hah ! I see I must stop your pipe, then, by the mortial P 

Costigan placed the lantern on the floor, and then 
grasped by the throat the still prostrate old man. But his 
gripe no longer had in it the force of youth or of manhood; 
even the few years that had elapsed since we first know 
the robber had, together with brutal indulgences and ex* 
cesses, considerably enfeebled his arm ; and in a trial of 
strength, for dear, dear life, even our little, fat, round 
friend proved himself almost a match for him. At all 
events, Nick M'Grath fastened the fingers of both his 
hands tightly in Costigan's long grey locks, now fallen 
from under his straw hat, and tugged with might and 
main. Costigan undid his grasp, and seized the waistcoat. 
Nick M'Grath followed his example, secured it at the other 
end, and was dragged off his bed into the middle of the 
room — now shrieking shrilly for Ned Fennell, while his 
antagonist's curses and threats mingled with the old man's 
almost despairing cries. 

" It's only makin' a fool o' myself I am," growled Costi- 
gan, suddenly relinquishing his hold of the waistcoat, 
starting up, seizing the iron bar, and raising it high over 
the prostrate Nick M'Grath. But the next instant his pro- 
posed victim saw him fall headlong on the floor by his side, 
while the heavy weapon came, with a ringing noise, against 
the boards. 

" Here I am, sir," said Ned Fennell, immediately after 
this happened — " get up, sir, and put on your clothes, and 
let us try to secure this worthy person." 



FATHER C0NNELL. 177 

He almost flung himself on Costigan's body, placed a 
knee upon his Breast-bone, and held down both his 
arms. 

" Ned, my good boy, God bless yon, God bless yon ; and 
I won't forget this to yon, Ned, I won't indeed ; " and Nick 
M'Grath proceeded, with as much speed as his haste, fright, 
and exhaustion would permit, to make his toilet 

" You shan't escape the third hanging, Robin Costigan, 
said Ned Fennell to his prisoner. 

Robin Costigan returned no word of answer. He only 
rolled his eyes, as a manacled wild beast would have done, 
bent inwards his under-lip, and gave a shrill fife-like 
whistle. It was a variety in the practice of the art of 
Whistling, in which he seemed such an adept. 

" What's that for ?" asked Ned FennelL 

Still he received no answer. The ear-splitting signal was 
only renewed. 

" You have helpers in the house. Then I must be alive, 
I see. Are you ready to go down to the shop, sir V he 
resumed, questioning his old master. 

"lam quite ready, Ned, my good boy ; but is he safe, 
Neddy?" 

" He is, sir ; I have him as safe for you, and for the gal- 
lows, as his heart can wish." 

Was it the tightness of the grasp by which he was held, 
that produced at this instant, certain sounds in his throat, 
or was it really a laugh of derision, that escaped from Rob* 
in Costigan? His old friend Ned looked close into his 
eyes, to help himself to ascertain the question, one way or 
another. But in them he could discern nothing but an 
ominous scowl. 

" You will now go down to the shop, sir, if you please," 
resumed Ned, " and bring me up a good strong rope ; I 
must tie this worthy neck and heels before I search the 
house. Light .the candle at the lantern, and take the lan- 
tern with you." 

"I will, Ned, my good boy — I wilL" 

Doing just as he was bid, with the docility of a child, the 
old man hobbled out of the room. 

" I was in the nick of time to spoil your sport, Robin," 
observed Ned to his unwilling companion. 

" You may say that," he was answered. 



178 FATHER CONNBLL. 

"I was watching at the door, here, to see what you 
would do, Robin." 

" How did you get into the house ?" 

"Hah! you'd like to know that, would you? Ill tell you, 
then. After trying my latch-key at the hall-door, and find- 
ing that it would not do for this evening, I turned to the 
back of the premises, Robin, scaled the yard wall, and 
entered the house, by the kitchen-window, which you so 
obligingly left open for me, Robin, I thank you." 

" Curses for ever purshue me ! That went out o' my head, 
shure enough." 

" Never mind, my poor friend ; 'twas only a slip of mem- 
ory — and well teach you, if we can, how to avoid such 
little mistakes in future. You and I met before, Robin, 
my dear— does your memory fail you in that too ?" 

" No, I remember id well, an' 111 pay you for it, as well 
as for this, before I die." 

" Don't, Robby ; don't be so particular ; 111 never ask 
you for payment, upon my word : all that you ever got at 
my hands I have given gratis, and with hearty goodwill, 
You are no creditor of mine, I assure you." 

" 111 pay you to the last farthin', for all that" 

"Ha! ha! and you really expect to make a fool of the 
hangman, over again, Robin ?" 

"Ill make you no answer to that, no more than to any 
other gibe of yours ; but 111 tell you my mind, on another 
thing, as often as you like ; an' I say to you now — an' don't 
let what I say go from your mind — I'll make you rue the 
day you ever crossed me." 

"The snow-ball an' all? — Fie, for shame on you, Rob — 
you bear malice I see, after play; but no matter. You 
give me a fair warning, and I nad better make sure of you 
then — keep my eye on you — see that the hangman's rope 
is strong, and that you hang until you are dead — and even 
after that I had better Bee, with my own eyes, that the 
earth covers you." 

" You'd want to do all that, an' more, to keep yourself 
out o' harm." 

Ned FennelTs light vein changed a little. Impotent as 
the old robber's threat, under present circumstances, might 
seem, still, it was made so often, and with such self-posses- 
sion, that Ned now felt a little uneasy and qualmish. 



FATHER CONNELL. 179 

"So, mind yourself, my callavm." 

" Well then, Robin my friend, I will mind myself* And 
so, well begin at once, if you please." 

From his master, who now returned into his bedroom, 
he snatched the rope he had gone for. 

" Hold one of his feet tight for a moment, sir, that's all 
I shall ask you to do. You are surely able for so much — " 

" Oh 1 aint I, Neddy, my boy? Ask himself, Neddy ; ask 
if I'm not able for a good deal more than that, when he 
had me alone here, all to himself ; ah I if you'd see the 
way I gave it to him, when — " 

"Don't tell me about it now, sir if you please — wait till 
I have him quite fast and secure for you." 

" Well I will, Neddy, my boy." 

And with coil affcer coil, and with knot after knot, Ned 
soon had Robin Costigan as well manacled as ever was 
man before him. 

The instant Nick M'Grath saw the process ended, he 
went down on his knees, beside the prostrate Costigan, and 
took up his interrupted demonstration of the "way he 
gave it to him ;" clenching his little fist, protruding one of 
his fat knuckles, and punching his late antagonist in all 
the softer parts of his body, not excepting his face, over 
and over. And suddenly he changed the single monoto- 
nous expression, which accompanied all this punishment 

" Twas your masther bid you do it," he said, chuckling 
triumphantly. 

" My masther 1 I have no masther, you ould fooL What 
do you mane?" 

" I mane what I say. Twas your masther bid you do it, 
I tell you ; an' a masther you have, for as clever a hand 
as you think yourself ; an I can tell you who he is too, 
if you portend to forget him ; he's your masther, the divil, 
you iail-bird — ould Nick, my pet ; " and punch, punch, 

Sunch, with his knuckle, still accompanied every word that 
lie exulting old man uttered. 

A glare of red light here suddenly burst on the unshut- 
tered window, fully illuminating the apartment 

"What can that be?" said Ned Fennell, running to the 
window, which gave into the little yard. 

"Hal ha! ha!" laughed Costigan, down in his very 
stomach. 



180 FATHER CONNELL. 

" Mercifal Heavens! the hay-loft is on fire," rejoined Ned. 

"Eh? what? what, Ned? don't say that, Ned, my good 
boy, don't say that," cried poor Nick M'Grath, suddenly 
lowered in his high tones, and struck almost into inaction 
by this new terror, as was testified by his weak and mum- 
bling voice, shaking frame, and vain attempts to rise from 
his kneeling posture. " Don't say that ; Ned, if it is the 
thruth you're spakin' we must all be desthroyed in a few 
minutes 1 The warerooms, you know, Ned — the warerooms 
all round the hay-loft — " 

Another very original kind of laugh escaped Costigan ; 
his chest and shoulders undergoing quick convulsions, in 
proof of the internal pleasure it gave him. 

"I know, sir," answered Ned to his poor master, "I 
know too well what danger we are in — come here, sir," he 
dragged the bewildered old man to a window which looked 
into the street, thrust out his own head and shoulders, 
after he had with great difficulty raised it up, and with all 
the power of his lungs shouted " fire! fire !" 

" Now, for heaven's sake, dear sir, endeavor to keep your 
wits about you, or all will indeed be lost — fire ! fire !" Ned 
shouted again. 

" I will, Ned, my boy. I will keep all my wits about me 
— you'll see I will — an' the fools, Ned! my poor fools! are 
they to be roasted alive too ? Only why didn't they keep 
off the fire and the ill loock from the house an' the place, 
an' such a plenty ov 'em in id this night, of all the nights 
in the year." 

The old malefactor again laughed his own well esteemed 
laugh. 

"Silence! you grey-headed scoundrel," said Ned Fen- 
nell, turning fiercely upon him, " silence ! or you'll tempt 
me to brain you on this spot ; for your laugh frightens me 
like the laugh of a devil ! He snatched up the iron bar 
which lay near Costigan, sprang to the window, and a 
third time shouted " fire !" 

Sashes were now thrown up in the opposite houses, and 
voices, in shrieking alarm, demanded where the fire was ; 
and when Ned answered, thev, in their turns, gave him 
back his fearful cry of "fire, fire! " and disappeared into 
their houses to dress hastily, and issue forth to volunteer 
their best efforts to arrest the calamity. 



FATHER CONKELL. 181 

"Now, sir," resumed Ned beseechingly to his master, 
" do what I tell you, for God's sake ; go down stairs, get 
the key of the hall-door, and let in some of the neighbors, 
to help me to put out the fire — I must work by myself till 
they get in — Lord help us, what's this ? — why the old man 
is either dying or struck with sickness." He thus inter- 
rupted himself, as he perceived that Nick M'Grath was 
now sitting on the floor, with his back to the wall, smiling 
and muttering, and unable to make the slightest exertion. 

Ned Fennell stood a moment in almost agonized thought. 
He then darted down stairs, the bar of iron in his hands. 

In a few seconds Robin Costigan knew that he heard the 
noise of battering at the street-door, on the inside ; and in 
a few more was certain that Ned Fennell had, for the pres- 
ent, been obliged to give up the attempt in despair. 

" Curses on his gandher head," growled Costigan — " he 
hasn't brains enough in id to give a minute's guess that the 
key is in my own pocket" 

Again the old robber bent his ear to all the noises around 
him. 

He heard other and other window-sashes thrown up, and 
then the screaming demands of "where — where? and 
reverberations of the wide cry of " fire ! fire I fire I " running, 
like fire itself, up and down the street — the street which, a 
few moments before, had been as dully and as deadly silent, 
as the sealed tomb. After this the noise of running feet 
sounded abroad, of which a great many came to Nick 
M'Grath's house door, while voices roared and bellowed 
out entreaties and commands to have it opened ; and while 
the still gathering crowd knocked and kicked at it, till the 
street echoed again. " A sledge, a sledge I " he then heard 
them say ; and still the clamor of running feet and fright- 
ened voices increased every instant And in the midst of 
this uproar the curfew-bell, before mentioned as hung in the 
high structure, over the Tholsel, now only a few yards dis- 
tant, suddenly clanged out a thrilling peal ; it was design- 
edly rung in a hurried and irregular manner, sometimes 
slow and low, sometimes loud and fast, conveying to the 
already terrified minds of those who heard it a fancy that, 
suddenly wakened out of its sleep, like themselves, it also 
shared their present trepidation. At all events, as its 
dash, clash, broke over the midnight repose of the little city, 



182 FATHER CONNELL. 

penetrating its every nook, and reaching even to its wide- 
spread suburbs, no tocsin ever produced a greater panic. 

Crash! at the hall-door below, and Costigan swore that 
it was burst open. He was right, and immediately he 
heard running and vociferating through the house, and 
almost at the same moment his apprentice quickly, yet 
stealthily, glided into the room. 

"Your knife here!" said the old offender. 

The not unapt boy looked, comprehended, and instantly 
proceeded to cut the cords that bound his master. 

"You done id, then!" growled Costigan during this 
rapid process. 

"I did— well" 

" Is the hall-dour wide open fur us ? " 

"As wide open as hell's hall-dour is fur us." 

"Folly on, then!" and Costigan jumped up, and was 
hastening out of the apartment. 

" Is he safe ? " questioned his young colleague pointing 
to Nick M'Grath, who now lay huddled up in a corner, and 
as silent as if he were dead. 

" No, but the fright 'ill do for him — whether or no, we 
havn't time now; no, nor the tools convanient; make 
speed afther me, I say." 

In a short time, indeed, the two worthies had escaped 
from the house almost unnoticed. 

Meantime, after his failure at the hall-door, Ned Fennell 
had rushed into the yard. Flames were issuing through 
the open doorway of the hay-loft, and with them came a 
very horrible clamor and clatter from the poor idiots with- 
in it ; each wretched being expressing, in his own accus- 
tomed phraseology, the frantic fears that possessed him. 
So that much of the ludicrous ran strangely through the 
fearfulness of the scene. Ned FennelTs flesh crept ; but he 
was about to bound up the step-ladder, when, his scanty 
portion of attire fringed with blades of burning hay, the 
colossal Mickle appeared at its top, and crying out: — 
" a-rodge ! a-rodge ! come out o' that, murther o' Heaven ! 
come out o' that, a-rodge!" leaped into the yard, clear over 
Ned FennelTs head, rolled about for an instant on the 
ground, then gathered himself, up, and clambering into 
the kitchen-window, galloped through the house, as ha 
had entered it 



FATHER CONNELL. 188 

Immediately after, Ned Pennell was groping bis way 
through the dense smoke with which the hay-loft was filled. 
Loader than ever came the screeches and gabble of the 
pooi fools upon his ear. He called out to them, over and 
over, to approach tLe doorway and escape. The obstinate 
creatures only strove to hide themselves closer in th<* hay 
Choking with the smoke, he groped about, and seized one 
of them. 

"No, you beggin' bochach," cried this person. "No, 
we're free ! no hoult is to be laid on us ! By Herrinp, 111 
— " But here Ned Fennell twirled him down the step- 
ladder. 

Three more of them Ned saved in the same manner ; en- 
countering from each similar resistance, though in different 
ways. To accomplish his purpose with Paddy Moran, the 
vicious and dangerous idiot, he was obliged to thump him 
well, and stun him with repeated blows on the head, 
aimed as well as he could with his right hand, while he 
held him tight with his left. He knew that there was yet 
another — the poor deaf and dumb simpleton ; but he, alas, 
must be left to perish. Ned no longer had a second's time 
to search for mm. The fire was rapidly gaining inward ; 
even at this moment of terrible excitement, he had pres- 
ence of mind enough to perceive that it had been kindled 
near the doorway. And excited indeed he was ; his own 
brain and marrow felt to him as if on fire too. He be- 
gan to tear away the blazing hay nearest to him, and 
toss it into the yard : in a few seconds he £ave God thanks, 
to hear some one else laboring at his side. The smoke 
cleared away a little, and again he fervently thanked 
Heaven that it was the poor trebly afflicted being whom 
he had given up for lost. 

The swinging clash and roar of the town-bell now broke 
upon him. Shortly afterwards, he heard the breaking in 
of the hall-door, and he had help enough. Half-dressed 
men and lads filled the yard, and bounded up the ladder, 
into the hay-loft ; and in half an hour, by their agency, 
and that of a good pump to their hands, in a corner, all 
was safe. 

" God bless you, my son," said the voice of Father Con- 
neD, addressing Ned, as, for the last time, he was hurrying 
down the ladder — " they told me that the fire was in this 



184 FATHER CONNELL. 

direction, and I had a great fear for the house that my son 
lived in, and I could not stay away from it God Mess 
you, Neddy, my boy." 

Ned sprang to him. They kissed each other on the 
cheeks, and Edmund bent his knee to the old priest, as, 
the " God bless you," was repeated ; then, still half-choking 
and burnt, though not dangerously, in the face and hands, 
he hurried Father Connell up to Nick M'Grath's bed-room, 
preparing him on the way, in a few words, with an account 
of what had recently happened there. 

On entering the apartment, he started in great surprise 
and some consternation, at seeing the spot where so very 
lately he had left Costigan so well tied up, now quite 
unoccupied, except by fragments of the "good strong 
rope," which Ned had so boastfully coiled and knotted 
round and round him. The uncomfortable threats of the 
old ruffian returned to his mind ; — and this sudden escape 
seemed to give by no means a pleasant earnest of their 
being carried into effect He returned in a race to the 
yard, whispered Tom Naddy, whom he had seen there 
among the crowd, and in a few bounds regained the bed- 
room. 

Ned and Father Connell looked about them for Nick 
M'Grath. He was still crippled up in the corner, and still 
smiling, though almost insensible. 

" Oh, sir," said Ned to his companion, "it was for this I 
brought you here." 

They raised the old man to his bed, and undressed, and 
covered him up welL Ned then ran for a physician, 
speedily returned with one, and poor Nick M'Grath, hav- 
ing been judiciously bled, gradually shook off the first 
approach of an apoplectic attack, and regained his senses. 
Other comforting treatment was applied, and he expressed 
a wish to be left alone with Father ConnelL 

Their interview was a long one — it should have been 
mentioned that they were old friends. Father Connell 
summoned Edmund Fennell, to call in another professional 
person — an attorney. In much alarm, the lad inquired if 
Ids old master was dangerously ill ; the priest said, not at 
present. The man of law arrived, and he and Father Con- 
nell spent some time at Nick M'Grath's bedside. After 
this, the poor "buffalo -man" seemed much at his ease and 



FATHER CONNELL. 185 

recovering fast In a few days following he was dead ; and 
as Father Connell and his adopted son sat together, after 
his funeral, the former acquainted Neddy Fennell that, by 
virtue of a will, lying in his, Father Connell's desk, and 
witnessed by himself, Nick M'Grath, not having any rela- 
tions that he knew of, had bequeathed to the person who 
had saved his life from the robber's hand, and whom 
previously he had loved, almost as if he were his own 
child, all his acquired money, in different shapes, together 
with his stock in trade, and the interest in his little, old, 
dingy house, and interests in other houses of the town. 

The only drawback on the full amount of the bequest, 
was a legacy of a hundred pounds to Nelly Breehan. But 
Ned could not have been the worse of this ; for was not 
she dead ? No — all the credit of fair intentions to kill her 
with her own kitchen poker, as well as all the inward grati- 
fication resulting from the certainty that she had been so 
disposed of, we accord indeed to the amiable young person 
who, after Nelly herself, had most to do with the question; 
dead, however, she was not, but, on the contrary, quite 
alive and up, to receive her little fortune, and to enjoy it in 
a quiet relief from worldly care and labor. 



♦•» 



CHAPTER XX. 

Bqbin Costigak and his apprentice gained the street It 
was still very dark, though past midnight. Persons all 
crying — "fire! — fire!" continued to run by them. From 
these they concealed themselves, as well as they could, 
sometimes by standing stock-still in a doorway, sometimes 
by turning for an instant into the sevenfold darkness of 
a lane, or an open archway; and thus, by degrees, they 
crept, or dodged on until they were within a few yards of 
the bridge, to cross which would have been their nearest 
route to the shower of houses. 

But the nearest route they did not contemplate taking. 
Oostigan now knew quite enough of young Ned Fennell, 
to be assured that he itould not neglect, on this occasion, 



186 FATHER CONNELL. 

to send some persons to look after him, and his youthful 
colleague. So, turning to the right from the bridge, the 
pair entered, still very stealthily, upon the beautiful walk 
called the canal walk, which, for a considerable distance, 
ran by the river's edge ; and, having once thought them- 
selves fairly free of observation here, they ran forward 
with a speed that could only be surpassed by that of two 
courier devils, despatched on a mission of great importance 
to Beelzebub, along the kind of black causeway, which 
Milton has built between his hell and earth. 

Gaining the rear of some mills, a good distance from 
the town, they jumped upon a weir, which in a diagonal 
sweep allowed passage, though a slippery and unsafe one, 
to the opposite side of the river ; and thence, it was the 
intention of the fugitives, to gain, by a wide detour, Joan 
Flaherty's house. 

Oostigan, still of course leading the way, had not pro- 
ceeded, ankle deep, in the foam at its top, more than a few 
yards along the weir, when he suddenly stopped, bent and 
crouched down his body, and looked keenly through the 
darkness before him. The next instant, he turned and 
stepped as rapidly as was possible through the polished, 
slimy stones under his foot* whispering to his follower as 
he passed him : — 

" They're lookin' fur us along this road ; bud come afther 
me still/' 

"Who's lookin 9 fur us?" demanded the boy, in alarm, 
and he too peered through the thick darkness. 

Some shadowy figures certainly approached them ; the 
foremost one, that of a woman. The young observer still 
looked, till fear and fancy invested this female with a face 
and features now never to be forgotten by him. They 
seemed alive too, only that the eyes were closed. He trem- 
bled, turned, tripped, and fell ; and as he arose, still to 
follow his leader, blood was flowing from the wound on his 
forehead, over his haggard, young features. The persons 
from whom they fled were, after all, a poor, old, tottering 
man, his wife, equally old and feeble, and a little grandson, 
then returning from a begging expedition, along the well* 
known short cut of the weir. 

As fast as they had run down the canal walk, they now 
ran back along it, until they were again delivered from it* 



FATHER COKNELL. 187 

into the town. And even now, they would not venture 
over the bridge they had before avoided. Passing it, they 
turned into a narrow street, making a parallel with that in 
which Nick M'Grath lived. Here all was comparative 
quiet ; they could hear, however, the distant noise of voices 
around his house. At the end of the narrow street, they 
were in the very heart of the town, and in the widest part 
of it. To their right hand few or no persons hastening 
to the scene of the fire appeared coming against them ; 
and they therefore skulked forward at that side of the way. 
They passed the city jail, surmounted by its court-house, 
both scrowling sideways at it, although Costigan had, be- 
fore now, made very light of its thick walls, iron doors, 
and black dungeons. They journeyed on, to the extremity 
of the town ; crossed a little bridge, covering a narrow, 
but rapid stream, into the Irish town ; now completely un- 
observed, raced through it, leaving behind them on their 
way the fine, old cathedral with its very oddly-shaped 
steeple, and mysterious round tower ; turned down a sub- 
urb street ; gamed another bridge of three arches, span- 
ning the river, within about three quarters of a mile of 
that which they had shunned ; continued to run against 
its steep rise ; arrived on its highest point, and stood still 
to breathe. 

A few poor pufib of breath had not escaped them, how- 
ever, when, fancying that footsteps echoed behind them, 
they again broke away. Not far from the other end of the 
bridge, a wretched by-road led immediately into Gallows 
Green. But, believing that pursuers were still in their 
rear, and gaining fast upon them, Costigan would not run 
the risk of misspending the half minute necessary to arrive 
at it Nearer to him, to one side, off the road, a new cabin 
had been half erected ; and at its back an old churchyard 
cut through to allow sufficient space for its site ; so that it 
was overtopped by an almost perpendicular bank of loose, 
crumbly earth, studded — though they were only now half 
embedded in it — with human bones and skulls, layer over 
layer. After darting through the open cabin, against this 
bank, Robin Costigan and his apprentice began to scramble 
upwards. The loose, dry earth, and the poor relics of 
mortality, gave way under their hands and feet, and clat- 
tered about their ears ; but still up they toiled, until fairly 



188 FATHER CONNBLL. 

exhausted, they at length sank in a luxuriant broad-bladed, 
dark green grass which plumed the graves in the most 
populous recesses of the ancient and long neglected 
cemetery. 

Here Costigan uttered not a word ; only growling as he 
fell flat, and buried his face in the grass. Sis companion 
sat up, resting his back against a headstone, and gazing 
vacantly upon another, at only a few steps' distance. The 
faintest, faintest gleam of dawn now began to move, like a 
changing spirit, through the deep murkmess of the Novem- 
ber morning. As the boy continued to gaze upon the 
blank of the headstone, he believed that a something, a 
little less dark than itself, came and stood against it. Still 
he looked, and the blank, vague thing became by degrees 
the shade of that aged woman, life moving her lips, though 
her eves were still shut as he had seen them on the weir, 
and her brow was now stained with blood. His hair 
stirred and erected itself on his scalp ; he screamed, 
jumped up, and ran wildly through the churchyard. Cos- 
tigan, with horrid curses, also rose and strode about in 
quest of him. When found, he beat with his fists his 
wretched pupil until the boy's flesh was black and blue, 
and even his conscience quieted for the moment under the 
influence of a new terror. In a few moments afterwards 
the pair were standing at Joan Flaherty's door. 



OHAPTEB Tnn; 



As soon as Ned Fennell had left the beggar-girl, the poor 
thing sat down on the straw which was to be her bed for 
the night, and laying het forehead on her knees, and clos- 
ing her eyes, as if purposely to shut out all surrounding 
evidences of her real lot, began to indulge in bright visions 
of happiness and heart's ease to come ; nor were the long 
fluttering sighs that soon escaped from her bosom, nor 
the stilly and dew-like tears which gently won their way 
through her shut lids, indicative of any interruption to 
this fascinating series of castle-building. 



FATHIR CONNSLL. 169 

M Thackeen, thaekeen*, hearkee to me," said a whispering 
voice almost oyer her. 

She looked up, and by the dim light of her greased rush 
saw a grey-headed wonfan leaning over the mud wall, famed 
to us of yore. 

" Come here, an' hearkee to me," continued this near 
neighbor. 

" What is it, honest woman ?" questioned the beggar- 
girl, standing upon the spot which the other overlooked. 

" I was overhearin' your discourse just now wid Masther 
Neddy Fennell ; an' it's a good right you have to be afeard 
of Darby Coone/s hand as you call him ; for Darby 
Oooney knows by this time that yourself and the young 
man were together, an' he knows you're afther informin' 
on him." 

" Och, och, don't say that to me, good woman, whoever 
you are, an' may the blessing sthrew your path every day 
you rise." 

"It's as thrue as that you're standin' on Joan Flaherty's 
flure. The boy — the divil's babby I mane in the shape iv a 
boy — that follys Darby Cooney, was on Ned Fennell's 
thrack whin he came here, an' he hard a'most every word 
ye said through the cracks in the dour; I seen him wid my 
own two eyes." 

" Och, then, pray fur my sowl, honest woman, for Darby 
Cooney's hand will soon spill my blood, an' hell throw 
the poor corpse where no eye will ever see id more, an' 
where no blessed sod will cover id! Och, och, what am I 
to do? or where, on the face of the livin' earth, am I to 
turn myself from this spot I" 

" You must make a bowld run for id, ma colleen, an' you 

Jon must hurry too, an' you must hide yourself well from 
>arby Cooney s eye, or it's a thruth that all will soon be 
over wid you." 

" An' och, och, who'll hide me, or who'll screen me from 
him? He'd find me out anywhere at all ; oh, I'm lost an' 
gone for ever." 

She wrung her hands and beat her breast in despair. 
" Husth ! husth ! isn't that his step outside o' the dour ?" 

Her friendly neighbor hastily dropped from her place on 
the wall into her own cabin ; and the girl stood palsied 



190 FATHER CONNELL. 

with terror, straining her eyes and ears towards the dooi 
of Joan Flaherty's house. 

But the new-found comforter quickly showed her head 
again over the top of the dividing wall, whispering : — 

" It was a false alarm, ma colleen ; he's not tnere this 
tune." 

"May the Heavens be your portion for that one little 
word !" cried poor Mary, clasping her hands. 

"But I tell you you haven't a moment to look behind 

Sou or before you; if he comes back an' finds you 
tare— " 

" Och, you needn't tell me, you needn't tell me i 111 run 
the world over from him, an' HI hide — " she paused as she 
was opening the door, and added, broken-heartedly, "but 
where can I hide from Darby Cooney ?" 

" Lave the dooer half open, that he may be thinkin' id 
was by it you left the cabin — no — wait—nion't stir till I 
go round to you — don't stir beyond the threshold till I 
bid you." 

In a moment after, the beggar-girl heard this person 
speaking in to her from her own doorway — the thresholds 
of the two doors met in fact. 

"Are you listenin' to me, good child?" 

" Och, I am listenin'." 

"When Darby Cooney comes back an' misses you, hell 
look fur the thrack o' your bare feet in the puddle here, 
but he mustn't find id : see — make one step on this from 
your own dour, an' another on my threshold, an' then in 
here with you to myself." 

While delivering these instructions, she placed in the 
mire an upturned stool; the poor girl understood and 
obeyed her, and in a few seconds jumped on the floor of 
her compassionate and zealous neighbor, who quickly and 
cautiously fastened her door. 

" You're too party, colleen dhas, to let us lave you in the 
power of Robin Costigan — Darby Cooney, I mane — afther 
what has happened ; an' young Ned Fennell won't keep 
the shet hand to them that saves you fur himself, I'm 
thinking." 

"He said long, long ago, he'd give me money, an' 
when he does HI give id all to you, if you'll keep me from 
Darby Cooney." 



FATHER CONNBLIs. 191 

*• Money makes the ould mare throt, good child and if 
I don't get the price o' new duds from Neddy Fennell, I 
haven't knowledge, that's all. Bud there's no time for 
discoorsin'. Come, this is the last place Darby Cooney 
will look for you in ; he'll never think you stopped so near 
him. Bad we'll make sure. An' first we must hide your 
ould mantle ; an' we must hide this gownd too ; an' we 
must put this ould bed-gownd on you ; an' we must tie 
this ould cap around your purty face an' your party jaws ; 
ay, we'll play some o' Darby Cooney's thricks on his own- 
sef, ay, mostna, we will — bud, mother o' glory!" the woman 
now shrieked out, "what's this I see on your bare back 
undher my eyes ?" 

During the course of her last speech her fingers were as 
busy as was her tongue, stripping off the little beggar the 
articles of dress that she doomed for a time to oblivion ; 
and thus Mary's neck and back became exposed. 

The astonished girl demanded the cause of her sudden 
exclamation. 

"Tell me," and she gasped out the questions, "tell me, 
an' tell me thruly, as there's a heaven above us! who are 
you ? whose child are you? are you Darby Cooney's daugh- 
ter? do you know yourself to be Darby Cooney's daugh- 
ter?" 

" Och, no, avouraeen, I don't know any such thing ; an' 
I'm ahure Im not Darby Cooney's daughter — an' the Lord 
forbid I was ! He tells me I am not his child, every day 
in the year, to show me what a burthen I'm to him ; an 9 
shure — as I said to my tendher-hearted boy afore now — 
(it's out o' the coorse o' natur' that I could be the child of 
(the man that houlds such a hard hand over me, an' that' ud 
jtake my very life this blessed night wid as little marcy as 
the would a dog's— och, no, no, no, I'm not his daughther !" 
I " An' whose child are ye, th<m ? tell me, for your life !" 

" Avoch, I don't know whose child I am — may the heav- 
ens pity me, I don't know." 

" Do you remember anything that happened to you afore 
bein' wid Darby Cooney?" 

" No—stop — bud no again. There was a little shade ov 
a notion came across my mind that moment — but it's gone 
away again — gone — gone — it was like a dhass ov a song 
beginnin' to croone in my very sowl, widin — " 



192 FATHER CONNELL. 

Her new friend interrupted her by suddenly singing ont 
a part of a wild, melancholy air. The girl started. 

" That's the very tune," she said, " an' I'm shure I hard 
id afore I came to be along wid Darby Cooney." 

"An* tell me another thing — do yon remember bein' 
earned about the counthry on a woman's back f 

Mary again started, and her beautiful, young face glow- 
ed with intelligent anxiety, as she replied : — 

" I do — for the first tune, I call id to mind now — an' I 
am shure it was the woman that carried me on her back 
that used to sing the dhass ov a song — and wait a bit over 
again. There's another thing coming on my mind at pres- 
ent — the woman left me in the middle of a field one day, 
an' I fell asleep, I blieve, an' when I woke I wasn't on the 
woman's back bud on a man's back ; an' — " 

The listener here cast her arms round Mary Cooney's 
neck* kissed her again and again, but was silent, for tears 
and sobs would not let her utter a word. At length she 
spoke in broken sentences. 

"You're my own daughter, colleen beg, you're my own 
daughter! The blood o' my heart is round your heart, 
and I gave you the milk from my breasts! ay, ay, I'd know 
you for Ids child and mine by barely lookui' at you," she 
placed her hands on the girl's shoulders, and her eyes ran 
wistfully from one to another of the features she gazed 
upon. "Ay, ay, you have his very look, fur he was hand* 
some then, tho' he's owld an' cantankerous now. An' 
there's the mark an' token between your shoulders — och, 
yis, my own own child you are !" She again embraced 
the beggar girl, who warmly returned the caresses, say- 
ing:— 

" Och, och ! if it's the thrutb that I find a mother in you, 
this night, the Lord above be praised fur ever !" 

" 111 make you shure, I'll make you shure. Bud there's 
no time for spakin' — hurry into this bed now— an* now he 
down — lie down — Til cover you up — an' don't have fear — 
don't have fear, colleen beg — I saved Darby Cooney's own 
life wanst — an' Darby Cooney's bad, black blood shall 
make that threshold wet afore he harms one ov the shinin' 
hairs o' your head, my own chona-ma-chree ; He down, lie 
down, an' He quiet, quiet, an' never fear. Fll hide you, HI 
hide you. Darby Cooney has his match in this cabin, to- 



FATHER CONNELL. 193 

night, and hurt shan't come near you, my colleen beg. 
There, you're covered up well now ; and 111 hide your ould 
duds — " She stepped nimbly upon her three-legged stool, 
and stuffed them into the thatch of her house, nearest to 
her hand — and, as will be recollected, that was near 
enough — " an' I'll fasten the dour well ; and 111 put out 
the rush ; an' then let me see if ten Darby Cooneys dares 
to lav a finger on you. Often I see the poor, little wake 
ken Iceepin' off the bull-dog from her chickens — an' Til 
keep off Darby Cooney from my chicken. Whisht ! I hear 
somethin' like a far noise ; don't as much as dhraw your 
breath loud — an' don't have fear still ; I'll sit here on the 
stool, close by you, in the dark, an' a little mouse 'ud 
make a louder noise nor 111 make; bud for all that I'll 
watch you well ; and by the sowl o' my body ! if a bad 
hand does come over you — " 

She sprang up, seized the only knife in her establish- 
ment, the wooden-hafted one, and began sharpening it 
very cautiously, on the bars of her little grate. 

"Whisht, over again!" The clang of the alarm-bell, 
for the fire at Nick M'Grath's house, now reached them. 
"That's a fire-bell, an' the Lord defend your tenther- 
hearted boy from the harms of fire, this holy an' blessed 
night!" 

" Och, amen, amen, I say !" wailed poor Mary in her bed ; 
" bud the fear is on my heart that Darby Cooney is the man 
that makes id ring out, for all that." 

"Never mind, never mind, ma colleen; you'll be safe 
from him, at any rate, while Nelly Carty's sowl an' body 
stays together." 

She ran back to her stool; after puffing out her sub- 
stitute for a candle, sat on it, the sharpened old knife 
now held tight in her right hand, and continued in a 
whisper: — 

"Lie quieter nor ever now, colleen beg — not a stir from 
you — not another single word from you — an' I'm not goin' 
to spake another single word myself, only I'll sit here an' 
watch over you — watch over you." 

Perfect darkness, and perfect silence now prevailed in 
the hoveL No stir of her person, no rustle of her garments 
came from Nelly Carty's stool,, and her supposed new found 
daughter remained as stilly as herself. Hours wore away, 



191 FATHER CORNELL. 

and it was the same, except that now and then Bridget 
Mulrooney gave a sadden tumble and snore in her own 
bed, at which misther pig would also turn in his snug cor- 
ner, and grunt out — "what in the world is that?" And 
yet another hour might have passed, and despite her mor- 
tal fears, the way-weary poor beggar-girl began to breathe 
hard, in overpowering slumber, when suddenly the watcher 
at her bedside withdrew the hand which, expressive of pro- 
tection, had hitherto rested on her shoulder, and putting 
back with it the grey locks from her ears, prepared them 
to listen intently. She could not be mistaken. It was 
Darby Cooney's growl, though now escaping him in the 
lowest possible key, that sounded at Joan Flaherty's door, 

" Mary !" he called, evidently with his mouth to one oi 
the chinks of the ricketty barrier, thinking that it was se- 
cure on the inside. He repeated the call, with deep threats 
and curses. He kicked against the door, and it new wide 
open. Nelly Carty next could distinguish that he lit a fresh 
rush, and was searching for Mary Cooney from corner to 
corner of his lodgings. Next she heard a low conference 
between him and another person, and immediately after, 
rays of red light darted like golden arrows through the 
chinks of her own door, as, in fulfilment of her anticipa- 
tions, the old robber went out to look for footprints in the 
mire. There was a pause. Had he gone away ? No. She 
heard his breathing outside her threshold— and she be- 
lieved that his fell eye was scrutinizing the inside of her 
dwelling— or, at least, vainly endeavoring to lo so, for, 
notwithstanding that the faint dawn began to grow more 
visible out of doors, little chance had it of yet becoming 
even hinted in the interior of one of the shower of houses ; 
and, as will be recollected, Nelly Carty had long ago extin- 
guished her rush-light. 

He returned into Joan Flaherty's hut Hah! was he 
clambering up the dividing wall, with his light, to take 
a more satisfactory survey of his neighbor's premises? 
Without the slightest noise, Nelly Carty slid from her 
stool, and then, without rustling a straw of her bed, 
stretched herself under the tattered coverlid, as still as 
if she were dead. Her eyes seemed closed too, yet could 
she peer between their lids. 

Upwards and still upwards, oyer the wall came the feeble 



VATHBR CONffBLL. 195 

beams of Oostigan's rash, and she soon saw himself, or at 
least his head and shoulders leaning forward, while he held 
the light above him, and every now and then changed his 
position, that he might shed it by degrees upon every spot 
of Nelly Carty's floor. His glance fixed, and became fear- 
fully steady on the conch occupied by Nelly Carty and poor 
Mary ; and it seemed to his old friend that he detected the 
presence of a second person at her side. He was preparing 
to descend from the wall into her cabin. She vainly tried, 
by a soft whisper and pressure, to awaken the beggar-girl, 
and warn her against screaming oat, or in any other way 
betraying herself, and was obliged to start up in a sitting 
posture, as Oostigan's motions became more alarming. 

" Who are you ? and what do yon want ?" she demanded. 

" You know well who I am — an' you know well who it is 
that I want. I want Mary Cooney — the little girl that's in 
the bed wid you ;" Mary here shrieked. " Yes, that's her 
party little voice— she's callin' out to come to me." 

"Don't come down there, like a robber an 9 a murtherer, 
in the dead o' the night into my house, or 111 make you 
rue the hour ! " 

"WeTlthry." 

Some ten years ago, Coatigan would have made light of 
jumping from the top of the wall on the floor beneath him. 
At present, however, he was obliged to turn and suspend 
himself by the hands, from its edge, that he might allow 
himself to drop easily downward. While proceeding in 
this operation, Nelly Carty standing on her stool, and 
desperately griping the haft of her old knife, was immedi- 
ately at his bade — nay, she had even fixed her eye upon the 
spot where she was to strike him. But one thought of 
other days, and then a rapidly succeeding dread of taking 
human life came upon her.. Her knife fell from her hand. 
She did not, however, remain inactive ; summoning all her 
strength, which was by no means contemptible, she sud* 
denly seized, ere he had dropped upon her floor, both his 
feet, and shoved him upwards over the wall, until he fell 
heavily at his own lawful side of it. 

"Still have no fear, ma colleen beg!" now shouted the 
triumphant Nelly Carty, remaining fixed on her stool, her 
eyes steadfastly rivetted on the place where she expected 
- Costigan to re-appear. 



196 FATHER CONNEIX. 

In a little time, indeed, his head again began to emerge 
over the wall, concentrated hell blackening his scowl, and 
all his features. 

"An* you'll thry id again, will yon?" demanded Nelly 
Carty, baring her stalwart arms for another deed of 
prowess. 

"Mary Oooney, my poor child— where are you, Mary 
Cooney ?" called out the voice of a new-comer, in kindliest 
accents, under Joan Flaherty's roof. 

The poor girl, shivering and chattering in her straw, could 
not call to mind whose voice it was, and yet, instant relief 
came to her heart as it struck upon her ear. Nelly Carty 
did know whose voice it was, and stood greatly amazed, 
and almost as much afraid of it as she was of Robin Costi- 

gan's. A third individual in the neigboring wigwam, after 
e heard it, and had glanced into the features of the person 
from whose lungs it proceeded, began to howl like a lashed 
hound, and crying out — "Run for id, masther — run for 
id! — " raced out of the apartment, still howling. Robin 
Costigan himself just turned his head, looked downward, 
and with the bellow of a wild bull, now dropped of his own 
accord upon the floor of his hotel, and then, to the observ- 
ant ear of Nelly Carty, evidently followed the advice and 
the example just proposed to him. After a second pause, 
the woman, from one touch of her newly com%» feelings, 
upon her very heart's pith, lost all her former dread of the 
accents of old Father Connell's voice, and serious and sad- 
dened, but with more respectability of manner than had 
ever marked her expression during her whole wretched life 
before, approached Mary Cooney's bed. 

"You're free ov him, colleen," she said — "Darby Cooney 
is gone from this neighborhood, an' that bad boy wid 
him." 

The girl started up, clapping hands for joy. 

"An' who made 'em go ? " she asked. 

" The good man that yon hard callin' out for you in the 
next house — the good ould priest that Masther Neddy 
Fennell tould you last night would help him to keep you 
from Darby Cooney ; an' he went to talk to the good ould 
priest about you, I'll be bound, last night, afther quitting 
you, for all that you said to hindher him ; an' I'll guess 
another thing fur you : the good ould priest is now lookin 1 



FATHER CONNBLL. 197 

fur you, to take you home to his own house — will you go 
wid him, alanna ? " 

" Och, an' I will, surely! If 'twas nothin' else, hasn't he 
the power, however he come by id, to frighten away Darby 
Coonev from me — an' who else, wid Masther Neddy Fen- 
nell's help, can hide me, and keep the hand over me, for 
the time to come ? Bud you say you're my mother, an' will 
you bid me to go ? " 

Nelly Carty, drawing in her lips hard, was silent for a 
moment. Some tears then stole down her cheeks as she 
answered : — 

" Yes, I will bid you go wid him, ma vourneen ; 'twill be 
fur the best — 'twill be fur the best — fur the present, at 
laste ; an' listen 1 there's the ould priest callin' out fur you, 
oyer agin. Bounce up on the flure, an' here's your own 
ould things to put on afore I let him in to you ; an' don't 
spake a word to him, alanna, about my thoughts that you 
are my child, till another time, when I'll bid you ; an' hurry, 
hurry, now ; I'm goin' fur him." 

As Nelly Carty approached her door to unfasten it, the 
morning's blessed light — blessed even on a November 
morning — was spreading tolerably well through the interior 
of her hut, and by its help she saw an eye peeping in 
through one of the many cracks of that frail safeguard. 
She started back. But at a second glance it could not be 
Bobin Oostigan's eye, neither had it the expression nor 
the color of Father Council's. It would have done very 
well for the eye of a jackdaw, on an extragigantic scale ; 
as she smiled complacently at the re-assurance, an un- 
commonly low whistle, just breathing in, through another 
chink, quite convinced her of the identity of its pos- 
sessor. 

"Why thin, Tom Naddy, what in the world brings you 
here, at this hour in the mornin' ?" she asked, flinging her 
door wide open. 

Word Tom uttered not ; but, half turning his head, with- 
out suspending his whistle, beckoned, as it were, with one 
of his shoulders, to a group of strong young fellows at his 
Hck, to follow him into the cabin. 

Of this group each held a something in his hand. Two 
01 three clutched good cudgels ; another, what seemed a 
f emaker's hammer : while two or more bore coils o f quite 



198 FATHER CONNELL. 

new rope, whether for the comparatively peaceful purpose 
of securing somebody's limbs, or for another, too serious to 
be lightly mentioned, has never been perfectly ascertained. 
As for Tom Naddy himself, he had his hands in his waist- 
coat pockets and held nothing at all in them, so far as could 
be seen or known. 

He lounged very leisurely into the hovel, and first struck 
by the figure of Mary Oooney, in a corner, stopped short, 
gazing and whistling at her. Then he as suddenly scraped 
one of his feet, and pulled his hat a little downward by 
way of a polite salute, and passed to Bridget Mulroone/s 
bed. The old potato-beggar awoke just as he was look- 
ing down upon her, his head turned sideways, and first 
screamed aloud, and then began to scold ana curse him. 
He quietly proceeded to Nelly -Carty's empty couch, and 
then, to the pig's well occupied one, and when this master 
of the house also began to remonstrate against his uncere- 
monious intrusion on his luxurious morning slumbers, he 
only patted the animal's fat shoulders and sides, while his 
scrutinizing glances stole round and round the apartment 
Finally he started up, and hurrying to the open door, and 
snatching his hands out of their repositories, spread wide 
the fingers of each, pointed outwards in various directions 
through the shower of houses, and then running himself 
through one of the crooked ways of the puzzle, and fol- 
lowed by his men, each running through another of its 
crooked ways, he and they were soon out of sight and 
hearing. 

A few moments after, Father Connell, and Mary Cooney, 
side by side, and hand in hand, were also threading the 
labyrinth. After a few words with her, the bare-legged 
and bare-headed beggar-girl had taken his offered hand, 
smilingly and trustingly, as a child of six years old might 
have done ; and while he worked and squeezed hers in it, 
as we know to have been his wont, on similar occasions, 
she did not shrink from the real pain thus inflicted, as, 
indeed, she might reasonably have done, but, looking up 
into his face, only smiled the more. 

Nelly Carty watched the pair from her open doorway, 
till she could see them no longer. She then knelt on her 
threshold, and crossing her face with her hands, sobbed 



FATHER CONNBLL. 199 

out, in a weak, feminine tone— "Ay, alanna machree — go 
home wid the priest — an' may he make you a betther an* 
a happier woman than your misfortunate mother ever was, 
afore you.** 



CHAPTEB XXH 



Miss Bessy Lanigan was the proprietress of a small, gen- 
teel house in a small genteel street, where none but small, 
genteel houses, inhabited by small, genteel people, held a 
place. No shop was to be seen in it, or any other evidence 
of an occupant who might be supposed to earn his or her 
bread by traffic, or handicraft pursuits. Towards its end 
indeed, a small, genteel boarding-school for young ladies, 
might have been found, but as this was not illustrated by a 
brass plate on the little, green hall-door, it passed well 
enough for a small, genteel, private house also. 

Miss Bessie Lanigan herself was on a scale of small gen- 
tility with her house, her street, and her neighbors. Her 
figure was small, and her dress genteel — barely genteel, 
just a degree or two removed from thread-bare genteel; 
ner little drawing-room was, by a series of contrivances, 
genteel ; her voice was small and genteel; her talk small 
and genteel ; her intellect, and her acquirements just as 
small, and just as genteel. 

No person in her native city boasted a wider circle of 
acquaintances, among the small genteel, than did Miss 
Bessy Lanigan ; and indeed she merited this distinction ; 
her prodigious knowledge of the affairs of others, and her 
readiness, nay zeal, in imparting that knowledge, would 
alone have entitled her to it But the little lady, further- 
more, played whist and the mere Irish game of five-and- 
twenty, incomparably well ; she was always good-humored 
— nay, in recollection of former times — absolutely frisky ; 
but above all other things, Miss Bessy Lanigan was good- 
natured. How ? She had lived a certain number of years, 
and yet had never been married, nay, had never refused an 
offer of marriage ; but instead of becotping soured at these 



200 FATHER COMffELL. 

circumstances, or envious of those whose fortunes were 
differently shaped, it seemed to do her little heart good to 
rejoice in, to promote, and particularly to be made confi- 
dentially acquainted with the love affairs of her younger 
associates, from one end of the town to the other. Let it 
be added that Miss Bessy Lanigan was sentimenal to the 
small, genteel extent of a perusal of a certain class of the 
novels of the era in which she lived, as well as of that 
before it ; and poetical too, so far as an acquaintance which 
the love lyrics of those times might deserve the term. 

Nor was her acquaintance limited to the small genteel 
alone. Some of the great genteel themselves — Heaven 
bless the mark ! — who lived in a larger private street ; in 
larger houses, and with everything larger surrounding 
them, shone upon her with the light of their counte- 
nances; and this is going to appear. 

On a fine autumn evening, as Miss 3essy reclined gen- 
teelly on a little sofa in her little drawing-room, waiting 
for the hour to go out on an invitation to tea — for scarcely 
ever did her engagements, or her means, allow her to take 
tea at home— a hasty, though lengthened assault was 
made on the brightest of brass knockers at her hall-door— 
an oval-shaped one, of about four inches long — and, in a 
few moments after, a very lovely girl bounded into the 
room. 

Had Miss Lanigan known Mary Cooney, and not known 
this visitor, she might have started at the supposed appar- 
ition of poor Mary, suddenly appearing fashionably dressed 
before her. For the young lady and the beggar-girl were 
of the same height, with the same turn of figure, and sym- 
metry of limb ; with the same blue eyes, or very nearly so, 
the same golden hair, the same general expression — their 
very smile was the same; and a difference in their age 
could scarce be detected. Thus Miss Lanigan might, as 
has been said, have been startled at this vision of Mary 
Cooney in fine masquerade; but the next instant would 
have removed her delusion, for when the young lady began 
to speak, and to express herself, through the still more 
emphatic language of movement, action, and manner, it 
could not have been our humble friend who stood before 
her. 

When friendly greetings had been interchanged — " Gra- 



FATHER CORNELL. 901 

eious me now," cried Miss Lanigan, " only to see yon 
here, in such a flurry, my dear !" 

"And I am in a flurry/' answered the young lady, "I've 
run away from papa and Mr. Stanton, while they are at 
their wine, just to ask your advice as usual, when I shall 
have told you something ; and I must be back again to 
them, in time to make their tea." 

"On this beautiful evening, when nature's self wool 
you, in gentle language, if the absent youth does not, to 
saunter far and wide ?" said Miss Lanigan, and waving he* 
little hand she quoted — 

" 'Primroses deck the bank's green side, 
Cowslips enrich the valley, 
The blackbird woos his destined bride, 
Let's range the fields, my Sally.' " 

" Oh, nonsense, now, dear Miss Lanigan — that is — I beg 
your pardon, I mean — but I have really something to say. 
Let us sit down till I take breath. How am I to begin ? 
I scarce know how ; I don't know whether to laugh or to 
cry; I don't know how to say it. A word against dear 
papa I will not utter ; but every evening, since the last you 
spent with us, there is this Mr. Stanton, formally received 
by him, as my wooer, and as formally installing himself — 
the odious animal ! — in the office. At first, I could laugh, 
till the tears came into my eyes, at the man ; now, I really 
begin somehow to fear him — there is such a steady, stupid 
pertinacity in his proceedings." 

" And you have bluntly rejected him, so often Y 9 said the 
little cabinet councillor, " and he still continues his assidui- 
ties?" 

"Yes, still continues his assiduities, as you are pleased 
to call them. Take a specimen from yesterday evening, of 
various ways in which he continues them. I had gone up* 
stairs to the drawing-room, and was busily employed with 
some work, when Ins creaking shoes and he entered the 
room." 

" Gracious me now! I vow and protest, my dear! 
Well, my love ? There you were, seemingly engaged with 
your needle, and he came in ?" 

"I was really engaged with my needle, for I dislike 
seeming to do anything which I do not in reality do. H# 



202 FATHER GONOTELL. 

sat for a long while on the edge of a remcte chair, without 
opening his lips ; his hideous eyes rolling about, as if they 
were glaring after a ghost, from which he seemed very 
eager to escape if possible." 

"My goodness, my dear I On the edge of a chair too! 
Oh, the creature, my dear ! Just as if soft things could be 
whispered from the edge of a remote chair. My gracious 
goodness ! Well, love f 

"At length his eyes fixed on my needle and thread, and 
he got speech. ' Miss Helen — ' said he, and he stopped. 

" To which you made answer, ' Sir,' and you stopped, my 
dear?" 

"'Miss Helen/ quoth he again. 'Do you know what 
I'm thinking 111 do?* 'No, indeed, Mr. Stanton,' I re- 
plied, 'what is it?' 'I'm thinking then that I'll— I'll 
break your thread, Miss.' ' Don't, sir, pray,' said I, and so 
he did not" 

With a laugh that came from her usually merry heart, 
Helen M*Neary ended this anecdote. The little hysteric, 
"hi, hi, hi," of Miss Lanigan ably responded to her. 

" Poor fellow, my dear, poor frightened fellow ! It was 
his overpowering passion for you, that so bewildered him. 
If he could, he ought to have sung at the moment — 

" * Since you've taught me how to languish, 
Teach, oh teach me, how to please/ 1 ' 

" Well, my dear, what did he do or say then?" 

" Nothing for a long while, not a word, not a stir reached 
me. Suddenly his shoes creaked, so loudly and abruptly 
that I started, and for the first time, looked fully at him. 
He was standing erect, one hand in a coat pocket. With 
that hand, from that pocket, he extracted, by-and-by, a 
soiled old pocket-book, of huge dimensions, and from it 
again, a letter, folded and watered. Then he advanced to 
me, and saying, ' I would thank you to read that, Miss 
Helen/ turned his back on me, and strode out of the 
room." 

"Dear me! good gracious, my dear! a tender epistle! 
oh, can I see it, my dear? can I read it, love?" admired 
and interrogated Miss Lanigan. 

"You can do both ; I have it with me. Here it i% and 
perhaps you will let me read it for ycu." 



FATHER CONNELL. 208 

"Oh, of all earthly things, my dear! gracious goodness! 
I am dying to hear it" 

" Listen then," and Helen read, with a good mock gra- 
vity, the following, ' tender epistle/ as Miss Lanigan called 
it The young lady, now young no longer, has handed it 
to us for insertion in these memoirs ; we copy it word for 
word, and letter for letter ; and moreover, we preserve it 
carefully for inspection, by any sceptic who may doubt, 
reasonably enough, however, the real existence of so valu- 
able a document 

May 2, Anno Domini 
" Diab Helen,— i hope to be excused for taking the liberty of writ- 
ing Those few Lines to you, which I hope will be instigation of termina- 
ting my affection towards you, or a perpetual Existency for futurity, viz. 
in matrimonial bands. For i postively declare that 1 hold you in the 
utmost estimation, in respect of your principles, and other earactherizing 
transactions deserving the greatest attention ; and. moreover, my partic- 
ular motives for addressing you thus is, that you would be so partial and 
kind as to divulge a part of your sintiments to me, in an Answer to 
this Letter, which i shall expect instantaneously; and, moreover, i re- 
quest and conjure you to be neutral about it, for fear of extending it 
into circulation, which would be no addition to Either of us. Now, dear 
Helen, i am candid with yon, and Declaring to you in the following lines 
my intention, i am fully determined to undertake or rather promote my- 
self in some measure, and as to Land property, its laborious attended 
By several difficulties, to wit, oppression of taxes and other tributes, 
high rents, and many other inconveniences to what there would be in a 
situation in the town. Now i hone you will answer this letter in the af- 
firmative and negative manner, sincerely declaring your intention to me : 
and, moreover, i hope you will make a distinction or rather a choice of 
the Conduct and edefying abilities of youth for a permanent contract, 
for I hope to the great omni potent that I shall prove and humble and 
affectionate comrade until the termination of my existanoe. I hope yon 
will excuse me for making so free, for i allow i am not qualyfyed with 
principles to equalize your, nor neither am i descended from such a dig- 
nifyed extraction. But i hope to God I shall ratify my declarations, if 
fortune favours me to obtain my wishes or elevates my mind that i can 
produce a character as worthy of attention as any other young man of 
my age in town or country, of my abilities, and I suppose you are not 
without knowing that it was a particular Business caused me to cross the 
Atlantic to Philedoa, although at my own expenses. But i hope to be 
retaliated handsomely at a future day, for i am the person was elected 
to go, and am the person that is in possession of the deed and will hold 
it, I shall expound nothing more in respect of that consequence as 
my acquaintance with you dear. It is still for i assure you it's a very 
near friend i would make such an open about a consequential affair. 

'* Write to me what your sentiments are in respect of me, and if you 
Encourage i shall more to you, and if you disenceurage it never shall be 



204 FATHER CONNELL 

more bat Bewried in Oblivion, no person the wiser, and i hone you will 
do the same, what i should think is a very proper way for both of as. 
Now i am confident yon have Intimates in abundance, and i hope as i 
have placed a confidence in yon, you will never show it to either of them, 
but burn it 
44 Direct your letter thus, U. R. L. 

M The name of the town and 
Parish forward it soon, 
Particular place and it will soon, 
Be with me. 

"Write immediately. 

44 I shall call to see, " No more at present, 
Again in short, From yonr loving; 

But i expect it will And affectionate friend, 

Be useless. Q. O. onexpounded." 

" Well," said Helen M'Neary, looking steadfastly at her 
little companion, "what do yon think of yonr tender 
epistle now, Miss Lanigan Y* 

" Think, my dear I Gracious goodness me, my dear !" 
was Miss Lanigan's only reply, while she returned the 
iffectedly solemn stare of her young friend with a very 
puzzled look, not knowing how she was wished to answer. 

" Do you continue to think it tender Y* 

" Bless me, no, my dear I" now beginning to see how she 
ought to reply. 

" Do you think it the production of a gentleman ?" 

" Dear me, not at all ; not a bit of gentility about it" 

" Is it quite comprehensible? Do you perfectly under- 
stand it r 

"Me, my dear?" 

" Why,' 9 said Helen, abandoning all her attempts at con- 
tinuing grave, and again bursting into hearty laughter, 
" was there ever such a mass of puzzled vulgarity ? and 
without saying a word of anything else connected with it, 
or the man who wrote it, you notice of course the met of 
'Q. O. unexpounded' placing his own letter with his own 
hand before me, in my father's house, whither he comes as 
a suitor at my father's invitation. What a ' caractherizing 
transaction,' as he himself would call it. And then you 
also observe, of course, the incomprehensible manner in 
which he requires my answer to be directed, while he him- 
self is to be its bearer. Why the person's head must be 
one great ravelled skein of confusion." 



FATHER CONNELL. 205 

" Oh, good gracious, my dear ! Surely— 

"None ever bad so strange an art, 
His passion to convey." 

Poor Q. O. unexpounded! Tell me, my dear, did you re 
turn any answer to this strange effusion t" 
"Indeed I did, and here it is : — 

" Mr. Q. O. unexpounded,— Yoiir very perspicuous letter is certainly 
the instigation of terminating my affection towards you, and the perpe- 
tuity of future existence — you have full permission from me, I assure 
you, to promote yourself in some measure, both in the affirmative and 
negative manner^ and according to the abilities of youth, you are wel- 
come home from Philed, at your own expenses, and I would advise you 
by all means to hold the deed, and I hope to see yon retaliated with all 
my heart—as you express it very clearly, calling to see me again wil* 
be useless. 

"So no more at present, 

" From your humble servant, 

•* G. O. unexpounded." 

Both ladies indulged anew in laughter. At length Miss 
Lanigan resumed : — 

"Why, my dear, rich as he is, the man must be a very 
low person. I thought from the first, that he had nothing 
of a genteel look about him ; though, to tell the truth, his 
clothes are very nice and new, and his cambric very 
fine. Dear me ! How did papa become acquainted with 
himr 

"That's a little secret Twenty years ago, he was a 
poor and distant relation of our family ; papa himself sent 
turn out to America, to some mercantile friends, and he 
now returns to Ireland, rich enough, in papa's estimation, 
to become my husband. And oh, dear Miss Lanigan, you 
know papa's determintion, in anything he once sets his 
mind upon ; and you know if crossed in it, his terrific, 
his almost maniac temper — Heaven forgive his daughter, 
and only child, for saying it — and you can easily imagine 
what, under these circumstances, my fears for the future 
must be. Oh, I wish, I wish," the young lady continued, 
her manner completely altered, while tears rolled down her 
cheeks — "I wish — as I have often wished, since this mis- 
fortune began to threaten me — that I had been brought 
up under a mother's care, and that I had a mother 
now." 



$06 FATHER C0NNELL. 

Miss Lanigan, not haying heard the last words, ran 
on — 

" Gracious goodness, my dear ; the crisis of your fate 
approaches indeed, the distress of your plot thickens ter- 
ribly ! Bless me, my dear, what is to be done ? Ah, Ed- 
mund, Edmund, why are you now absent from us !" 

Helen M'Neary started up hastily, and seemed atten- 
tively studying some little pictures, on the walls of the 
little room, as she said — 

" My dear Miss Lanigan, we are beginning to talk non- 
sense, I do fear. At all events, I cannot now enter into 
that question ; oh, how I dread to enter into it ; oh, I dread 
that my conduct has been all wrong ; oh, why did I ever 
allow a childish, almost an infantine friendship, to become 
confirmed into a more serious attachment — at least, why 
did I ever let him know it I" 

"Poor, dear, suffering soul!" said Miss Lanigan, sob- 
bing sympathetically, as she rose and took Helen's hand, 
looking up into the young lady's face, as she stood about 
the height of Helen's elbow. 

"Why, at least," continued Helen, "did I suffer the 
matter to steal upon me, without consulting my father, my 
only parent ! And yet again, could I have dared to open 
my lips to him about it Edmund Fennell his daughter's 
lover 1 Edmund Fennell, poorly born, the protege* of a 
poor priest, and beyond everything else, a Roman Catholic ! 
As to lineage or birth, I don't think indeed there is much 
superiority on my father's side in that respect ; but, my 
dear Miss Lanigan, papa would as soon make the Pope of 
Borne, tiara and all, an alderman and mayor elect of his 
native city, as bestow his daughter on a papist — " 

Helen said this, with something of a return of her laugh- 
ing temperament 

" Good gracious defend us, my love ! but why does not 
the youth himself come home, to advise you what to do — 
or at least, to console and cheer you? I protest and 
declare now, my dear, I begin to think that he takes your 
gentle distress very coolly — " 

"Do not say that, Miss Lanigan, do not wrong poor 
Edmund. Oh, Miss Lanigan — will you — can you keep a 
secret — my secret? Ever since he gave up his business 
to enter college in Dublin, with a view to a profession, now 



FATHER CONNELL. 207 

more than twelve months ago, I have had a letter from him 
almost every day — and advice and consolation he does 
offer me ; but on, are they of the description I ought to 
accept? Farewell — 'tis more than time I should be at 
home. And what do you think sent him away from here 
to begin a new career, and perhaps a ruinous career, in 
Dublin? Oh, you will hate me for telling you ! One word 
of mine— one foolish, vain word of mine ! I was led to 
say it, however, in the hope that my father might— but I 
must hasten home — Farewell Oh, I am indeed very, very 
erring — and" — Helen added, bursting into fresh and plen- 
teous tears — "very, very unhappy !" 

The young lady flew down stairs, without stopping for 
Miss Lanigan's advice. Had she really come expecting 
that any was to be had? Her little friend paused a mo- 
ment in consternation at her hasty and agitated departure, 
and then ejaculating — "My gracious goodness! Dear 
me 1" hurried to put on her things for going out to tea. 



CHAPTER XXm. 

Upon that day, as has been observed, "Q. O. unex- 
pounded " dined at Gaby M'Neary's. Gaby provided him 
with a dinner he preferred himself, believing that it was 
one "fit for a king." Somewhat unrefined, however, it 
certainly was ; but no matter, Gaby did not do it the less 
justice on that account; and it may be conjectured that 
neither the tastes nor the experience of his guest found any 
fault with it And yet Mr. Stanton scarcely touched a 
morsel of dinner, replying to every expostulation on the 
subject, while his large green-and-yellow eyes fixed on 
Helen — "No, sir; I'm obliged to you, I choose to admire." 

Dinner being over, and Helen supposed to be in the 
drawing-room, host and guest remained tUe-b-tke. There 
was prime old port and sherry to hand, together with 
Helen's little dessert, and they looked very comfortable. 

" Blng-a-bouns, man 1 " cried Gaby M'Neary. " Do .you 
mean to keep the decanters before you all the evening ? 



208 FATHER CONNELL. 

Fill your glass, and send them this way. Good ating de- 
serves good drinking ; and though yon didn't stand like a 
man to your knife and fork during dinner, the more fool 
you; but 111 take my oath you shan't keep me thirsty 
at present" 

"I ask your pardon, sir — may I make so bold as to give 
you a toast?" 

" And heartily welcome, my buck." 

" Well then, sir, 111 give you the-a, the-a — IH give you, 
sir, Miss Helen M'Neary*8 very — good — health." 

" Helen's health — here it goes. Come, no heel-taps to 
that toast, my chap. But tell me. Have you yet agreed 
on the day between you ?" 

" The-a— the-ar— the day, sir ? What day, sir ? " 

" Why, the splicin^-day to be sure, you great goose." 

" The-a— the spliong-day, sir ? '\ 

"Ay, to be sure — the wedding-day." 

" No, indeed, sir, we have not." 

"And why the devil havn't you? Why do you coma 
here, sneaking about my house, for nothing? Why, man, 
when I made up to Helen's mother, I didn't give her time 
to say Jack Robinson, till I had made her consent to run 
away with me. I ran away with her mother, by Gog, or 
they would never have given her to me. Well, Masther 
Tom Naddy," Gaby continued, addressing that individual, 
as he entered the parlor — Tom having left the service of 
Father Connell, in the hope of "promoting himself," as 
Mr. Q. O. unexpounded would say — "Well, Masther Tom 
Naddy, you lazy, scheming rascal ; have you hung Boxer, 
as I bid you?" 

" Oh mix, sir, an' sure I did." I 

"And sure you did ? Well, and you were in a damned 
hurry, my good chap. Boxer was as good a dog as ever i 

nuzzled a rat," Gaby continued, turning his face to his son- I 

in-law elect, "and I'm devilish sorry he's gone— devilish ! 

sorry." j 

" Didn't you tell me, sir, never to come before your face, 
till I had him well hanged for you ? " questioned Tom 
Naddy. 

"Go along, you scoundrel! you wouldn't be so ready to 
do anything that would be useful — no, you wouldn't— you'd 
take your tune at that, and be damned to you." 



FATHEB CONffELL. 209 

" And the-a — the-a — poor Boxer, air. What did he do, 
to deserve being hanged?" asked Mr. Stanton. 

" He did enough, and more than enough, damn his blood 
—he turned his coat, the rascaL" 

"The-a— turned his coat, sir ? " 

"Yes, went to mass last Sunday, with that half-starved, 
whistling, popish cur there," meaning Tom Naddy, " but 
111 have none of them that are reared up in my house on 
good Protestant ating and drinking do that — those that are 
brought up by old Popish priests may go to their masses, 
if they like, and to the divu afterwards ; but 111 have none 
of my bringing up, cross themselves in a mass-house — ha ! 
Misther Boxer, you know as much now, I blieve ? Why, 
Dick Stanton, what are you about? there are the decanters 
with you again." 

Dick Stanton hastened to push them home; his host 
filled, and drank a bumper, and then resumed, after a 
moment's cogitation : — . 

"Dick Stanton, I wouldn't have lost that poor dog for 
any money. He was worth his worth in gold; oh, I wish 
you could have seen him nuzzle a rat! And then, he was so 
fond of me ; I'd give ten, twenty, ay, thirty pounds, to have 
him back — ga down stairs out of that, you unlucky hang- 
man," to Tom Naddy, "you're laughing at me, you scoun- 
drel, though you don't let me see it— go down stairs, or 111 
knock your brains out, where you stand, with this decanter." 

Tom Naddy accordingly lounged 0% and Gaby re- 
addressed Mr. Q. O. unexpounded. 

"Our two bottles are now nearly out between us, my good 
fellow, and so, 111 take my after-dinner nap, while you go 
up to Helen. And, do you hear me? none of your arm's 
length work any longer — have you kissed her yet?" 

" Sir— the-a— kissed her, sir ? " 

" Yes, you long bamboo I didn't you hear me ? Kissed 
her, I say." 

" The — the-a — I declare, sir, never." 

" Pah— I thought as much ; off with von then, and do it 
this moment— stop— Blur-an'-ages! what's this? Why, 
Boxer, my poor boy, is it you? Blug-a-bouns! my poor 
ould dog, Tm glad to see yon I" and Gaby M*Neary hugged 
Boxer with delight, its the animal jumped up on him, 
whining, and ijflfri n fl r him fr^-f^fa , 



210 FATHER CONNELL. 

"I'm not for bein' too hard on yon, sir," said Tom Nad- 
dy, cautiously introducing merely his head at the door, 
"so, I won't be keepin' you up to your full word, by axin* 
the thirty pounds, that you said you'd give to get Boxer 
home again ; bud I'm sure I'm in rason when I say I'll 
take the bare twenty that — " 

" By Gog ! you sneaking thief," interrupted Gaby M c - 
Neary, "I'll make you laugh with t'other side of your 
mouth when I lay hands on you ! Get out of my house in 
five minutes, or I'll — be off, you rascal 1" 

Tom a second time withdrew. Gaby finished at one fell 
swoop the wine before him, and patting Boxer — who laid 
his nose on his knee, looked up into his eyes, and de- 
scribed segments of circles with the whole length of his tail 
on the carpet — spoke again to Q. 0. unexpounded. 

" Now, I'll take my nap, at last, Dick ; and so you mind 
your points above stairs ; or if you don't, I hope that some 
one who has more in him than yourself, may carry off 
Helen from you, body and bones." 

Thus admonished, Q. O. unexpounded stood up, lifted 
his cane from the floor, where it nad lain at his feet, since 
before dinner, smoothed his powdered and pomatumed 
hair, felt his queue behind, to ascertain that it was directly 
between his shoulders, and, uttering a preparatory " hem," 
accompanied his creaking shoes, in search of his mistress. 

Having reached the drawing-room door, he tapped at it 
with the head of his cane ; and then, seizing that badge of 
gentility in the middle, held it before his face, a favorite 
action of his — for in this position, its golden head and 
eyes, and gold thread tassel, were displayed to the best 
advantage. 

Helen had been but a few moments at home from Miss 
Lanigan's, and the command which gave him the right to 
enter was therefore uttered in a discomposed voice ; she 
was able, however, to take a seat, near her tea-table, in 
perfect composure, before the door opened ; so respectfully 
tedious were Mr. Stanton's motiona 

Having got inside the door, he made a profound rever- 
ence, striking it with the most remote part of his person, 
as he did so, and then, his features wearing a lugubrious 
simper, by dint of Gaby M'Neary's good old wine, he ad- 
vanced, and to Helen's great surprise, drew a chair much 



FATHER CONNELL. 211 

closer to her than ever he had drawn chair before. He 
held up the cane still, and tapped its gold head against his 
yellow teeth, while his huge eyes gorged themselves on the 
young lady. 

Helen suddenly looked him straight in the face, and, in 
features, simper, manner, and action, he underwent an 
immediate collapse. The cane was lowered, he rested 
his hands on his knees, and his glance wandered round the 
apartment. A long silence ensued. At length he said — 

"The-a— hem! The-a — don't you think, Miss Helen, 
the-a— - don't you think that Hessian boots are handsome 
wear !" 

" You pay me a vast compliment, sir, by consulting me ; 
but I really cannot say." 

"Well— that's curious. The-a — you know New York, 
Miss Helen?" 

" Upon my word, sir, I do not know New York." 

" Tib a nice place, then, Miss — just when the ship was 
sailing into New York, we ran short of grog." 

"A very graphic description of New York, sir," and 
Helen's austerity of face now relaxed into a smile. 

The wretched creature misinterpreted the smile's mean- 
ing, and he felt his courage remount into his heart, whence, 
a moment before, it had retreated like cold water. 

"Miss Helen?" 

"Mr. Stanton?" 

" Do you know what your most worthy father is after 
telling me to do ?" 

" How should I know, Mr. Stanton ?" 

"Well /won't tell you, Miss Helen — only 111 show yon." 

And with a desperate plunge of resolution, before Helen 
could be at all aware of his abominable intention, he flung 
his arms around her neck. She started from her seat, and 
struggled, and screamed, while Q. O. unexpounded held 
her firmly in his bear's gripe, panting and blowing, as he 
endeavored awkwardly to effect his purpose. The young 
girl's neck and face were hurt with his odious, vice-like 
pressure. But she soon freed herself, and still screaming 
loudly, fled to her own room, and locked, and bolted her- 
self in. 

In the mean time Gaby M'Neary's bell rang violently, 
and his voice was heard through the house, snouting for 



212 FATHER COKNELL. 

Tom Naddy, totally forgetful that, only a few moment! 
before, be bad issued a thundering fiat for his quitting the 
premises. So he shouted lustily, and rang, rang his bell, 
so as to make it quite a little tocsin, his restored friend, 
Boxer, snarling and barking at every shout, and every tug 
at the bell-pull Gaby M'Neary was in fact the picture of 
a very angry man, suddenly awakened out of nis after* 
dinner nap. 

"Why did you keep me waiting on you, you brat? Why 
did you let me call and ring so often? And what the 
divil is this racket in my house?" he demanded of Tom 
Naddy, as that person made his appearance. 

"On, sir, Misther Stanton — Im beginnin' to be sore 
afeard he's a very wicked gentleman." 

"Wicked, you scoundrel — he wicked? Is that all you 
can say in answer to my question ? Wicked! Why any- 
thing of a sizeable fly would make him beg his life. What's 
this uproar in my house, I say again?" 

" Misther Stanton, sir, is afther half-chokin' the young 
misthress." 

" You infernal monkey 1 Is it making game of me you 
are?" 

"No sir — no such thing. They was wrastling fur an 
hour, and then Miss Helen ran fur her life." 

"Where's Mr. Stanton now?" 

u The hall-dour was open, sir, an' he made his escape 
through id, as I kem up. 

" Blug-a-bouns ! Will no one tell me the reason of all 
this ? Where's Miss M'Neary at present ?" 

" She's hidin' undher the bed in her own room, sir, half- 
kilt" 

"Is she, you lying vagabond?" 

Gaby scrambled up from his arm-chair, seized his sticky 
and stumped, might and main, towards Tom Naddy, who, 
however, by no means waited to be charged by his angry 
master, but walking pretty slowly through the doorway, 
went down the kitchen stairs. After him came Gab/s 
stick, bounding and rattling, while its owner roared forth — 

" Take that^ you mongrel whelp ! I'll teach you how you'll 
humbug me, in my own house." 

Without the slightest hurry or flurry of manner, Tom did 
take up the stick, placed it against the wall, and then crack- 



FATHER COKKBLL. 213 

ing his fingers, and whistling melodiously, descended to his 
lower regions. 

" Give it to me back again, you young rascal ! do you 
hear? give me back my stick, I tell you!" But Tom was 
out of sight, and remained so ; while his master, being out 
of a fit of gout only a few days, clung helplessly to the 
balustrade, not daring to venture down stairs, either after 
the stick or the person who had so much irritated him. 
He then raised his voice for " Helen ! Helen 1" she quickly 
answered her father's summons. 

" What happened to make you frighten me out of my 
sleep, madam r 9 

"I have been grossly insulted, father." 

"You have, have you? Be pleased to tell me where, and 
when, and how, and by whom." 

"By that vulgar fool, and I will now say, ruffian, sir — 
that man Stanton." 

"Why, what did he do to you? Did he knock you 
down?" 

" I can't, father, I can't answer you." 

".That is to say you won't Gog's Blur-an-ages! Isn't 
this a poor case ! No satisfaction for me, no matter who I 
ask — the next thing is to turn me out of the house between 
you, I suppose — will you speak to me, madam ?" 

" Dear, dear father, what shall I say ?" 

" How the devil do I know ? Do you want me to tell 
you a story that you're to repeat to myself?" 

" Sir, he had the insolence to seize me round the neck—^ 
and to hurt me — and to attempt to salute me, as if — " 

" To salute you ! you mean to kiss you ? Blug-a-bouns I 
what else would you have him do ?" 

'•Sir!" 

" Sir ! the man is going to be married to you, and he 
musn't kiss you ? And was it for that you bawled out ?" 

" Certainly, sir." 

" Certainly, sir ! and wakened me out of my sound sleep. 
Iarit Dick Stanton to be married to you ? Tell me that." 

"No, air," cried Helen, starting back, and holding up 
her head, while she spoke almost as loud as her father, and 
all but frowned on him. 

u What do you say?" 

Becollecting herself, Helen now repeated her "No, sir, 9 * 



214 FATHER CONNELL. 

in a more gentle and respectful tone, though not in a lest 
determined one. 

" No, sir ? By the great Gog ! he is, though ! And he 
shall, and he must be! By the mother that bore you, he 
shall and must !" 

" Oh, father, father ! Oh, horrible !" 

" Or you may walk out of that hall-door ! Do you hear 
me?" 

" Oh, God help me, sir, I do." 

"Ill make you know he's to be married to you. Ill 
make you know it before you're seven days older. Blood- 
an'-thunder-an'-fury ! to my very face the young hussey 
says this I But — 111 — have — my — way — in — my— own — 
house— or — " (you are now gomg to be guilty of bathos, 
Gaby ) " or 111 make the devil box punch. Go out of my 
sight, you young— woman," added Gaby, gulping down a 
very different word — "go out of my sight— go to your own 
room I By the Hokey farmer, 111 make every one of ye 
dance from the top of the house to the bottom. In seven 
days youll marry Dick Stanton, my lady, or you may go 
marry t' ould blind man on the bridge. Quit my signt, I 
sayT 

Helen accordingly went up stairs, almost despairing 



CHAPTER XXIV. 



The next day, by dint of unusual gravity and suavity 
of deportment, Tom Naddy succeeded in making his 
master forget all his disrespectful conduct of the pre- 
ceding evening, and once more they were tolerable 
friends. 

In the course of the day, there came a great knocking 
and ringing at the hall-door. Tom answered it, and re- 
mained for some time talking earnestly with the visitor, a 
country-looking man of rather a respectable appearance. 
Gaby M'Neary saw them together on the steps leading to 
his hall-door, and loudly and angrily called Tom in. To 
his surprise, the curious fellow was weeping, and enacting 



FATHER CONNELL. 215 

to perfection the part of one trying to suppress a sudden 
and great grief. Gaby M*Neary inquired the cause of his 
affliction, and was informed that the man was a relation of 
his, from a village about fifteen miles 0$ and that he had 
come to announce to him the death of his father, and to 
summon him to the funeral ; and Tom implored to be per- 
mitted to go. After many characteristic demurs on the 
part of Gaby, his prayer was granted. 

We come to the next day, and are in Dublin, arriving at 
Edmund FennelTs lodgings, in that city, just as he himself 
returns to them, late in the day, to dinner. 

Going up stairs, and entering his sitting-room, Edmund 
started back, as if he had seen a spectre. In the middle 
of the apartment, whistling a very favorite air, stood Tom 
Naddy. 

" The devil ! " cried Edmund. 

" No, Masther Neddy, nor any of his blood relations." 

"What on earth brought you here? — any bad news?" 

" Myself doesn't know what news there's from the Hague 
to-day, nor it'sn't much I care, to be plain wid you, sir j 
bud we have fine news at home." 

" What is it, Tom, what is it ?" 

" Heugh-a — sure you don't care an ould crooked thraw- 
npen what it is, an* you so grand a gentleman, here in 
Dublin now, an' never comin' next or near us, for I don't 
know how long ago ? " 

"X>o answer me, Tom, what brings you up from the 
country ? Out with it at once." 

"Why thin I will/' said Tom very quietly. "Miss 
Helen M'Neary is to be married next week, plase God." 

"Married! Gome, Tom, don't attempt to play off any 
of your old jokes on me." 

" Ould jokes, sir ? Sure it's you know well I'm no great 
hand at a joke, young or ould." 

" And you are not trifling with me now ? " 

"'Tis &r from my notion, Masther Neddy; I tell you 
over agin, that Miss Helen will be married next week, as 
sure as I won't ; an' 111 give you my book oath, if you like, 
that I'd be long sorry to make such a fool o' myself." 

"You startle me, Tom — frighten me terribly. 

"I guessed that 'ud come to pass." 

" And the bridegroom ? " 

10 



216 FATHER CONNELL. 

" Do yon remember Misther Dick Stanton, sir, that com* 
home from America, just before yon left us ?" 

"Yes— and is it he?" 

"Tis indeed— Misther Dick Stanton, that frolickin' 
young rogue." 

"Phoh! phoh!" said Edmund, as if speaking to him- 
self, " it can never be— Helen has never mentioned it in her 
letters — Phoh, Tom, impossible ! " 

" Well, have id your own way, Masther Neddy ; but I 
hard th' ould lad swarin 9 oath upon oath, not a great many 
hours ago, up to Miss Helen's face, that she was to marry 
Misther Stanton, widin a week's time ; an 9 ould Gaby isn t 
the boy to go out of his road, for any man born ov a wo- 
man — no, nor for any woman born of a woman neither ; 
an' I just tell you that for your comfort, Masther Ned." 

" Thank you, sir," said Edmund bowing to him. 

" Kindly welcome, sir," answered Tom, bowing in return. 

"But he cannot force his daughter to marry against he* 

wm?" 

" Bud can't he force her into the sthreet, an' shet the 
dour in her face ! Faith an' he can ; an' tis himself is the 
very ould boy to do it" 

" No, Tom, no. Helen shall not be forced." 

" All very fine talk, 'pon my conscience." 

" What do you say?* 

" Don't get cross wid me now, Masther Ned, if you plase ; 
sure it isn't me that's going to be married to Miss Helen?" 

Edmund had been walking about the room, with bent 
brows, repeating his opinion that Helen should not be 
married against her will, and he scarcely heeded Tom. 

" You'll be thryin' to put a bar to id, Masther Ned T 



■ Trying?— I will put a bar to it" 
' Would it be « 



> doin' any harm to ask how?" 
" How, how — I cannot see that, yet ; but I tell you that 

J will put a bar to it." 

" Faith, an' fur ail myself can see, you'd want some one, 

wid a little share of brains to help you. Is id a 'torney or 

a counsellor you're to be, Masther Ned, when your time is 

out?" 

" Stop the marriage I will, were it by twisting the neck 

of that disgusting fool," continued Edmund, still only half 

attending to Tom, as he walked about 



FATHER CONNELL. 217 

" Faix, I wouldn't like to be in ais coat Will yon pro- 
mise not to strike me for what I'm goin' to say, sir?" 

" Get out, you idiot !" 

" Bud will yon promise me ?" 

"Phoh! to be sure I wilL" 

" Yon say Miss Helen isn't to be married next week?" 

" She shall not, by— I" 

" Well, an' that's a thumper iv an oath ; I tell you what 
111 do wid you. See here ; there's two shillings— all I'm 
worth in money, on the face ov the livin' earth, afther 
eomin' off of my long road this eyenin'; they say you haye 
a houseful ov ould goold ; I'll lay these two shillings agen 
two ov your ould guineas, that Miss Helen will be married 
next week. Asy now, Masther Ned— don't be comin' so 
close to me, that-a-way. Sure you promised not to sthrike 
me?" 

" Yes, but I did not promise that I would not take you 
neck and heels, and pitch you out of that window into the 
street" 

"Faith, an 9 ov the two, myself 'ud rather be sthruck 
dacently — keep off, sir, if you plase." 

A servant entered the room with Edmund's dinner. 

" WeH, well, Tom, you may sit down yonder ; and while 
I dine, we will talk more of this business." 

But Edmund did not keep his word ; he remained either 
quite taciturn, or, after attacking his food with every ap- 
pearance of a ravenous appetite, pushed away his plate, 
and muttered to himself, not addressing a word to Tom 
Naddy. This did not answer either the purpose or the 
temperament of Tom. After glancing scrutinizingly a- 
round the nicely furnished apartment, he broke through a 
whistle so low, that it might be called a whispered whistle, 
and spoke, "Nate lodgins' intirely we're in here, Masther 
Neddy." 

He got no answer. His next remark was : — " Why thin, 
may the saints rowl a blanket o' glory round the poor ould 
man that left us." 

Ned understood the smothered slyness of Tom's allusion, 
and perplexed as he was, suddenly glanced at him and 
laughed. 

"Well, Tom ; and had you no business in Dublin, but to 
bring me this news?" 



218 FATHER C0NNELL. 

" What other business 'ud I have, sir V 

" Your young mistress sent yon ?" 

" Never a send, thin." 

" And you have a letter ?' cried Edmund, starting up. 

"No, I have not; an' no message either. An y not a. 
word from the young mistress to you, good or bad." 

" What ! She would not write to me ?" 

" No ; because she couldn't" 

"Couldn't; why?" 

Tom put his hand in his pocket, took out the key of hit 
sleeping loft over his stable at home, and gave it a sudden 
twist, as if shooting a lock with it, accompanying the act 
by an explanatory nod of his head. 

"What I" cried Edmund, understanding him, "have 
matters really grown so serious ? And so, Tom, you have 
come to Dublin of your own accord ?" 

" O' my own accord." 

"And the road so long! How did you travel? On the 
top of the coach ?" 

"Faix no, Masther Edmund; on the top o' shank's 
mare ; walked id, or raced id, every inch o' tne way ; an' 
in the night time, as well as in the day time, more beto- 
ken." 

The distance was upwards of sixty miles. 

" Well, then, Tom, I see you are a faithful kind of fellow 
after all ; and you shall have something to make up your 
road expenses, Tom." 

" Never fear that — 111 have your two ould guineas hon- 
estiy won, by my wager, as shore as little apples." 

Edmund Fennell again began to look annoyed, and Tom 
thought dangerous. 

"Stop now, Masther Ned. Whist, wid yourself, an' 
come here, as far from the dour as ever we can ; would id 
be any harm to lock id? I won't spake another word till 
it is locked." 

Edmund turned the key. In two hours afterwards, he 
and Tom Naddy were on the roai from Dublin homeward, 
together. 



F1THER CONNELL. 219 



CHAPTEB XXV. 

Tin next day still, and we have returned with them to 
fheir native city. 

Tom Naddy is re-installed in all his former offices in 
Gaby M'Neary's household, and enjoys something more of 
his master's favor than ever he did. With an unusual 
degree of interest, Gaby questioned Tom concerning his 
father's death, and Tom gave him a full account of the 
nature and suddenness of his fatal disorder — " a smotherin' 
up all over," he described it to have been ; then of the 
wake, and then of the funeral, adding a list of how many 
little brothers and sisters were now left; almost wholly 
dependent upon him " fur the bit an' the sup." 

Edmund Fennell, not making his return known, even to 
Father Connell, hastened to Miss Lanigan's genteel little 
house. He had long been acquainted with her, had often 
met her at Gaby M'Neary's, and quite as often had met 
Helen M'Neary under her roof. Miss Lanigan received 
him, as was her wont, with great good-nature and sympa- 
thy. She either knew or guessed all the circumstances 
which caused his present unhappiness; nay, she could 
supply him with a few more, to add to his comfort, as Tom 
Naddy would remark. Helen had continued under lock 
and key, ever since her father had informed her that she 
should become the wife of Mr. Stanton. And the mantua- 
makers — she had it from themselves — were in and out 
every moment in the day, preparing her dresses for the 
awful occasion. 

" But it is not possible," said Edmund, "that Helen ever 
will consent to marry that stolid fellow, in the teeth of her 
promises, often and often, and most solemnly repeated, in 
the presence of Heaven, to be mine — my own— oh, Miss 
Lanigan, you have yourself witnessed, over and over, the 
interchange of our vows to each other — can you do nothing 
now to assist us in keeping them unbroken?" 

" I declare and protest, my dear, I am ready and willing 
to do anything — but I declare I do not see, for tha present] 
what is to be done — " 

" Miss Lanigan, I am distracted— and I siiaii act %« * 



220 FATHER CONHILL. 

desperate mail, I fear, if some means are not devised to 
prevent a breach of Helen's engagements with me." 

" I vow and protest, my dear, I sincerely sympathise with 
you, and commiserate you. You love, and are beloved—* 
and the situation you are placed in, is most interesting and 
absorbing — and my poor Helen tool What must be her 
feelings? — 

" ' With the man that I love, were I destined to dwell, 
On a mountain, a moor, in a cot, in a cell,' " 

I should think myself supremely happy. But still, I ask, 
what is to be done? I would not be for lacerating your 
tender feelings by rudely separating you. But be not over* 
hasty, my dear ; vou have still three or four days to con- 
sider ; hope for the best — 

u * Hope, thou Bonree of every blessing, 
Parent of each joy divine. 9 " 

Edmund Fennell suddenly interrupted the waving of her 
little hand by seizing it, and her quotation, by breaking in 
upon it, and'speaking very rapidly. 

"The case is this, Miss Lanigan. Helen M*Neary is 
mine, by every vow and pledge that could bind her to 
me — and if I had a thousand lives to lose, one after the 
other, I would lay them down, sooner than be separated 
from her — I am no blasphemer, but I deliberately swear, 
by-" 

" Hush, dear youth I" interrupted Miss Lanigan in return, 
placing her disengaged hand on Edmund's lips — " be calm 
— swear not — neither scare me — by your terrible threats — 
gracious goodness me I what is to become of us all? I 
protest and vow — n 

" Miss Lanigan, listen to me. There is one step, which 
if taken, would prevent all the misery that may otherwise 
happen ; and you can, if you like, be mainly instrumental 
in causing that step to be taken." 

"Goodness gracious, nowl What step? What do you 
okean, my dear ?" 

" Ihis-— I mean this. Tou can persuade Helen to con- 
tent to a private marriage with me.** 

Miss Lanigan half screamed at the notion. " A clandes- 
tine engagement ! And such an engagement 1° No, no; 



FATHER CONJTELL. 221 

the thing was impossible ; it would be Terr sinful, and very 
wicked, and by no means respectable for her to have any- 
thing to do with snch a matter. It would injure her char- 
acter among her very numerous circle of friends, who were 
vieing with each other, every day in the year, to see which 
of them should have her oftenest amongst them* No, no, 
no ; much as she sympathised in the deep distress of her 
dear young friends, her interference was totally out of the 
question. Edmund entreated, raved, Miss Lanigan was 
positive. In fact, her little, genteel, worldly interests were 
touched, and that was enough. Miss Lanigan was an 
instance of a meagre affectation of romance, and solid self- 
ishness, going hand in hand very comfortably together. 
Edmund now ran out of the house, muttering and threaten- 
ing awfully. 

At the end of the little street he encountered Tom 
Naddv. 

"Have you a letter for me?" asked Edmund. 

Tom handed him one. He tore it open, and ran his eye 
over it 

" TKs all as I feared," he continued, " she refuses to en- 
tertain, for an instant, my proposal — Helen, I knew you 
would, though I am sure you love me." 

" What luck had you wid the little eldherly lady in this 
street, Masther Edmund r" 

"No luck." 

"Well, lave her to me. Ill make an offer at her, over 
again fur you. Ill be lookin' afther you in an hour or so, 
sir, wid better news fur you than you have fur me, may 
be." 

And thrusting his right hand into the left sleeve of his 
jacket, and his left hand into its right sleeve, he shouldered 
onward very leisurely to Miss Lanigan's little green hall- 
door, whistling at every step ha took— but indeed, not te 
want of thought 



222 FATHER COJHfBLL. 



CHAPTER XXVL 

It has been hinted that Miss Bessy Lanigan had achieved 
her present height of little, genteel popularity, in a great 
degree, by her amazing capacity for acquiring a knowledge 
of other people's affairs, and by her obliging readiness, in 
communicating that knowledge. She was a daily periodi- 
cal of private anecdote, and her publication commenced 
about twenty minutes past seven in the morning, and did 
not quite end until about ten minutes to eleven every 
evening. How she acquired matter to fill herself with 
diurnal novelty, was wondrous. But she left no resource 
untried for the purpose. As her own editor and compiler, 
she was indeed individually a host ; still, her contributors 
were almost beyond calculation, embracing every rank 
within her reach, down to the humblest servant, nay, to 
the very old beggarwoman or beggarman at her door, who 
came to get something from her, but were sent away, on 
the contrary, affcer giving to Miss Lanigan all they were 
worth in the world — their malice and their lies — without 
receiving in return, as much as a potato-peel, a crumb, or 
an empty marrow-bone. 

And yet did they consider themselves repaid, starving 
though they might be. One of the quality had conde- 
scended to listen to their wretched gossip ; and so they 
felt themselves of importance to society, and went on their 
way rejoicing. 

With condescension indeed, nay, with familiarity, the 
little lady was necessarily obliged to reward all her humbler 
contributors, since stipends, alms, or bribes, she had not to 
give. And Tom Naddy, ever since he had become trans- 
lated into Gaby M'Neary's service, cannot be supposed to 
have escaped Miss Lanigan's constant claims for contri- 
butions. 

This day, having knocked at her little green hall-door, 
and sent up word that he was the bearer of a letter to Miss 
Lanigan, he was admitted to her presence without delay. 
The letter, he said, came from Miss M'Neary, through the 
medium of her own maid, and he was charged to use the 
greatest secrecy and punctuality in delivering it 



FATHER CONNELL. 223 

Miss Lanigan proceeded to read it Poor Helen was in 
a terrible state of affliction. She had not stopped crying, 
nor slept a wink, since the evening of the fearful contention 
with her father. She felt greatly indignant at the tyran- 
nical restraint set upon her ; she did not know what to do 
— but trebly resolved she was, that no earthly power should 
ever make her wed Mr. Stanton ; yet, how to avoid the 
calamity without incurring her father's utmost displeasure 
— perhaps his abandonment and his curse — she could not 
determine. She looked round on every side, but all was 
black and hopeless. Would not her dear Miss Lanigan 
assist her? — and again Helen asked for advice (while 
perhaps she despised the source from which it was to 
come). 

Helen went on to say, that she had been startled that 
morning by a letter from — Miss Lanigan knew whom — 
written by him in the same town with her, and she had 
been more than startled by its purport. It proposed to 
her to take a step which it was impossible she ever could 
take. But would Miss Lanigan come to her father's house, 
and, as she was a favorite of his, would she try to gain his 
permission to see Helen, and then Miss Lanigan should 
know more ? 

Miss Lanigan paused in great perplexity over this epistle. 
She was aroused by a sort of groaning ejaculation, as if of 
utter despair, from Tom Naddy, who occupied the chair, 
which, as usual, his little editor had pointed out to him ; 
and Tom looked, and had twisted his limbs, into an exceed- 
ingly woe-begone expression. 

Muss Lanigan addressed him. 

"Why, I protest and vow, my good boy, affairs seem to 
go on worse and worse with you at home. 

" Worse an' worse, sure enough, Miss — an' worse nor 
that agin, if I'd say id. But what signifies the way things 
is now to the way they'll be in a little time, if matthers 
doesn't mend, Miss ?" 

"How so?" 

" Why, Miss, there 'ull be slaughter an' desthruction to 
no end, if Miss Helen marries Misther Stanton." 

" Good gracious ! Do you really think so, Tom ?" 

" Faix, Miss, I'm right down sure ov it I know Masther 
Neddy well, ever since he was a weeny chap, an' look, Miss, 



224 FATHER CONNELL. 

I wouldn't give that for Stanton's .life, if id is a thing that 
he sets on taking Miss Helen from him." 

Tom Naddy touched the tip of his tongue with the tip 
of his finger, and held out on the latter, for Miss Lani- 
gan's inspection, the smallest possible portion of trans- 
parent saliva. 

" I protest you frighten me, my good boy." 

" An' no wondher — it frightens myself to think ov id. 
First an' foremost Masther Neddy will take Misther Stan* 
ton, an' hell think no more of knockin' the daylight out 
oy him than I would ov puttin' my feet on a spidher ; fur 
the poor crature oy a young man is crazy mad this moment. 
Well, that's one life gone. Then surely he must get a 
blundherbu8S an' shoot his own skull off, or else they'll 
take him up and hang him on the gallows for Misther 
Stanton's murther; and don't you think, Miss, that it 
'ud be betther fur him, an' more genteeler, to kill his 
ownsef than to lave id to the hangman to do? Don't 
you, Miss?" 

"Oh, for gracious' sake, good boy, don't put such a 
shocking question to me. I protest and vow, I'm all in 
a tremble at the thought of such horrid doings." 

" Well, that's two lives gone, widout any doubt on the 
face oy the earth. Then let Miss Helen get over id all if 
she can. Ill bet any sum she'll never see a happy day 
agen, an' that she'll dhrop into an airly grave. An as for 
th'ould masther, I'll go bail, wid all his oaths, hell be sorry 
enough whin he sees nothin' bud murther an' misfortun' on 
every side ov him. I'm only a poor boy, Miss, an' I'd go 
five nundhred miles on my bare knees to stop that unloocky 
weddin' if I could, An' if there was any good crature that 
would be the manes oy stoppin' id, they might be sartin 
sure that a blessin' 'ud fall on 'em, every day they'd see the 
sun— och, it 'ud be a crown o' glory fur any one that 'ud 
do id!" 

" But if old Mr. M'Neary is so very determined, I cannot 
see how the marriage is to be stopped." 

"Very asy intirely, Miss, very asy intirely. It 'ud only 
be fur Miss Helen to give her consent to marry wid Mas- 
ther Neddy, afore the day fur th' other unfortunate weddin* 
*ud come round, an' then, sure all the mischief 'ud be hind* 
hered at once." 



FATHER OONNKLL. 225 

M Miss Helen will never consent to any such thing. I 
know well she will not Besides, you don't think of old 
Mr. M'Neary, young man — no person could withstand his 
fury." 

"Bud what could his fury do afther all, Miss? Maybe 
he'd part wid Miss Helen fur a start — bud sure Masther 
Neddy has plenty to keep her like any lady in the land. ' 
Why, a body might say, to be sure, that id wasn't a right 
way to have the young lady married — but wouldn't it be 
betther nor murther an' slaughter ? An' th' ould masther 
'ud cotton to both ov 'em afther a while, an' thin there 'ud 
be nothin' bud blessing an' happiness every day in the 
year— an* thin, wouldn't the loocky body that brought it 
all about be made much of — och, wouldn't she?" 

"I protest and vow — " began Miss Lanigan, and she 
paused. 

" An' do you know what, Miss ?" 

"Well, Tom, what?" 

"Misther Stanton wouldn't fret very long, I can tell 
you." 

"What! Is he not most tenderly attached to Miss 
M'Neary, poor man ?" 

"By my faix, Miss, he'd be more vexed- to have his 
queue made crooked, than to lose two Miss M'Nearys. I 
have id from his own mouth, Miss. 7 ' 

" Gracious goodness me ! Do you tell me so, Tom ?" 

"'Torn,' says he to me, t'other day, 'Torn, my honest 
lad,' says he — I was puttin' the queue straight fur him at 
the same time — ( Tom,' says he, ' your young misthress is 
a very nice, genteel young lady ; bud, Tom,' says he agcn, 
'I wouldn't care much, even if she broke wid me ; fur I 
think I can get another young lady as nice, an' as genteel 
as she is. I'm not lookin' afther money, fur I've plenty of 
that ; a nice, genteel, young lady is all I want ; an' don't 
you think, Tom,' says poor Misther Stanton to me, 'don't 
you think, Tom, Fd be able to get another nice, genteel, 
young lady, if anything happened to prevent the match 
wid Miss Helen? 9 'Be my faix, an' sure you could, sir,' 
says I ; 'sure you're a match fur the best among 'em' — an* 
so he is, Miss ; a quiet, paceable gentleman, an' very well 
to look at, an' I don't think he'd say hoome or hawm to vex 
a lady for his whole life long — what do you think, Miss?" 



226 FATHER CONNELU 

"Indeed, lorn, I do think Mr. Stanton very likely to 
meet a favorable reception from a great many ladies." 

" See now ! Didn't I know that ? " 

" Well, and what else did he say to you, Tom ?" 

" He's no way proud, Miss ; proud gentlemen or ladies, 
that wouldn't talk free wid a poor body, they're not the 
right sort afther all ; 'tis upstarts, an' cratures ov the kind, 
that snubs us poor people ; rael gentlemen an' ladies are 
civil ah' conversible, an don't turn a snout on them that's 
below 'em — is not that your opinion, Miss ?" 

"Yes, indeed, Tom : and you may see that I am chat- 
ting very freely with you." 

"Blesains on your purty face, Miss, sure enough you 
are ; well thin, an' Migther Stanton isn't a bit prouder nor 
you are ; an' he made as free wid me, as if I was one of his 
own sort, afther a manner — ' Tom,' says he, ' I like Miss 
Helen very well intirely, an' I'm in a chokin' hurry to be 
married to her ; bud,' says he, ' the ould gentleman is an 
oddity. If he houlds on, 111 hould on too, bud he may 
turn short on me, Tom,' — I'd give a purse o' goold that he 
did, Miss, bud there's no chance o' that — * he might turn 
short on me, Tom ; an' if he did, I think I'd get as nice, 
an' as genteel a young lady as ever she was — particularly 
whin 'tisn't the money I want.' * Tis you that would, sir/ 
says I ; — 'Tom/ says he, over agen, 'I think you're not a 
bad judge of young ladies,' — wasn't that very free of him 
to say to me, Miss ? " 

" He paid you a very high compliment, I vow and pro- 
test, Tern." 

" 'You're not a bad judge of young ladies,' says he. 
* Why, sir,' says I, ' I'd make a guess that way.' " 

" My goodness, gracious ! And pray, Tom, by what rule 
would you form your judgment of young ladies V 

"Did you ever hear of the rule of thumb, Miss r" 

" Never, I protest." 

"Tis by that rule that botches ov carpenthers work, 
Miss ; but that's not my rule, Miss ; 'tis oy the eyes I 
go, like a fellow that sarved his time ; I think 'tis a gift 
to me someway ; an' 111 tell you, Miss, the two handsom- 
est young ladies to be met, from the Butt's cross to Bally- 
vougth, an, thin you'll know, Miss, if I'm to be depinded 
on." 



FATHER CONNILL. 227 

"Do, then, Tom — let me hear, for goodness gracious' 
sake." 

" The young misthress, Miss Helen M'Neary, is one ov 
them, Miss ; an' sure I needn't only turn my eyes across 
the room to find another young lady who could walk by 
Miss Helen's side every day in the year." 

" Oh, Tom Naddy, my good lad ; you can flatter, I see." 

"That I may never rise from the sate I'm on, Miss, if 
what I'm afther sayin' isn't the very thing I'd swear on the 
book, this moment." (Mental reservation on Tom's part) 

"Indeed, Tom, I cannot but be obliged to you, said 
Miss Lanigan, as she fixed her smug features into the most 
amiable expression, bobbed her little head, and "bridled," 
as it was then termed. "I do declare, Tom, you know 
how to be gallant" 

" Och, it s little I know about that fine word, Miss ; bud 
sure, I have an eye in my head. Well, Miss, as we war 
sayin' — poor Misther Stanton, as nate a gentleman as ever 
cum across me — says he to myself, 'I think you're not a 
bad judge ov young ladies ;' ' I'd make a guess that way, 
sir,' says I ; 'then, Tom,' says he, an' he shuck me bee the 
fist — savin' manners — ' Tom,' says he 'if anything happens 
to break the match between meself and Miss Helen Mac- 
Neary, you'll be on the lookout fur me, Tom ; I know 
you're a judge, Tom, an' I think, Tom, that I'd agree in 
your choice, Tom ;' wasn't that makin' very free intirely, 
Missr 

" Ha, ha ! dear me," and Miss Lanigan again hesitated. 

Tom examined her face, and was not slow to perceive 
that he had produced an effect She was measuring at 
once Tom's opinion of her attractions, and Tom's power 
and authority of selection for Mr. Stanton, while a flitting 
vision of escaping from her state of little gentility, and 
wretched singleness, into the wide expanse of wealth, and 
of married importance, plainly irradiated it 

" The greatest fault, or my be 'tis his misfortune, Miss, 
that Misther Stanton has—" 

Miss Bessy Lanigan started from her reverie. She had 
just dressed Mr. Stanton with all the amiabilities that 
could adorn his sex, and Tom Naddy hinted at a fault 

' Mr. Stanton's fault, my good boy ?" she asked, feelingly. 

"Bee my faix, Miss, I don't see a fault, to call id a tautf* 



228 FATHER CONNELL. 

about the good gentleman, only he's not — a-a — when— he's 
not — " and Tom polished the crown of his hat with the 
sleeve of his coat-—" he's not over-handy at coortin', Miss ; 
an' so, he'd lave id to another, you know, to manage points 
for him." 

"Is that all, Tom? And he has no other faults, you 
think?" 

" Avock, not he, the nice young gentleman — an' a lady 
might turn him round her little finger, Miss." 

" That's no fault, indeed, Tom ; your very presuming, 
forward young men, Tom, make too free ; and after all, 
when the novel charms of Hymen wear away, they cease to 
study what will please. 9 

" Oh, likely enough, fare, Miss, fur what I know ov the 
matther : but if I was a nice, handsome young lady, like 
you, Miss, Td never go beyond Misther Stanton — that is, 
supposin 1 1 was in the marryin' way, Miss — which they say 
you are not, Miss. 71 

The interview and conversation might be prolonged con- 
siderably, but it will be enough to say that Tom Naddy 
and Miss Bessy Lanigan parted upon the understanding, 
expressed or implied, that he was to use all his powers of 
intrigue and authority, to promote her to the station of 
Mistress Richard Stanton, provided she would, beforehand, 
prevail on Miss Helen M'Neary, to agree to marry Edmund 
Fennell privately — first of all, going at once to Gaby 
M'Neary's house, and gaining an interview with Helen, in 
furtherance of the project. 

Tom next kept his appointment with Edmund. His suc- 
cess with Miss Bessy Lanigan, astonished, though it de- 
lighted the young man. The next question was, what priest 
could be got to celebrate the private marriage ? 

"Father Gonnell, surely," said Tom, "an' you must go at 
once to him yourself, Masther Neddy." 

Edmund was disinclined to go. He almost feared to ap- 
proach his old protector, and still, his most respected and 
beloved old friend, on such a mission, particularly, as he 
had, without consulting him, come down from Dublin, to 
the interruption of his studies there ; and remained so long 
in his native town, without calling upon his old priest. 

But Tom Naddy insisted upon his going instantly. He 
would again meet Edmund, in a more convenient place, to 



FATHER C0NNELL. 229 

learn the result. Tom now seemed quietly to claim, from 
all parties concerned, full obedience to his commands, and 
by none was he eventually contradicted. 

Edmund accordingly proceeded to speed his ungracious 
task. He returned to Tom Naddy, and informed him that 
there was no hope. Father Connell had been more dis- 
pleased with him than even he had anticipated. As Ed- 
mund foresaw, he had severely chided his return from 
Dublin without consulting him, and the want of confidence 
in not immediately referring to himself for advice, especi- 
ally offended the old priest. As to his officiating in the 
private marriage, he altogether repudiated the idea. 

"Well," said Tom Naddy, very thoughtfully, "Illthry 
his poor Rivirence fur yon too, Masther Neddy, tho' faix 
I'm more, more afeard nor yourself was, a little while 
ago."' 



CHAPTER XXVIL 



" This is a world of sin, O Lord ! And your patience is 
great with the sinners of it ! Your mercy exceeds your 
Justice, O Lord !" 

Thus ejaculated Father Connell, as with his hands clasped 
within each other, and his eyes reverently, and most sor- 
rowfully turned upwards, he walked quickly about his 
little parlor. 

Suddenly he stopped, and looked on our friend, Tom 
Naddy, whose effrontery, thorough as it was, could scarcely 
withstand the effects produced upon his old master, by the 
atrocious lie he had just uttered to him. 

" And he told you this, Tom, of his own accord, and with 
his own lips ?" questioned the priest. 

" He did, your Reverence." Tom swallowed half of this 
repetition of the monstrous falsehood ; " he was afeard of 
savin 9 id to your own face, whin he came here a little 
while ago ; bud he tould id to me, that I might tell id to 
you— that is, I believe, an' I'm sure, that he wanted me to 



2*0 FATHER CONMKLL. 

tell id to yon, tho' he didn't lay his commands on me, out 
an* out" 

"Oh ! oh ! Lord have mercy on us, and guard us from 
evil I" moaned Father Connell, resuming his hasty walk up 
and down the apartment. 

" I have hope, sir, that you won't be angry wid me for 
comin' to tell you ?" questioned Tom, now shedding some 
real tears ; for every moment he grew more and more afraid 
of the desperate course he had taken. 

" No, Tom, no, I am not angry with you ; on the con- 
trary, I consider when you do not publish your neighbor's 
fault, for the purpose of exposing him to the world, but 
rather, with the intention of curbing him in his sinful 
career, you perform an act of praiseworthy Christian 
charity. 

The hardened diplomatist winced to the very quick under 
this most unmerited praise. 

"I have been a father to that boy, Tom," and here the 
old man's voice gave way ; he clasped his hands more 
earnestly than before, and tears stole down his cheeks — " if 
he had been my own son, I could not have more truly 
loved him ; and now, to repay me in this way—- to repay me 
by outraging, in the most serious manner, the laws of 
that God whom I thought I had taught him to obey— 
oh, it is very sorrowful for my grey heirs ; very, very sor- 
rowful" 

If ever liar was punished for his lie, almost in the very 
utterance of it, Tom Naddy was now that liar. All the 
acquired crookedness of his mind, and all the pleasures 
resulting from an indulgence in it, yielded to a momentary 
exercise of his natural straightness of heart The grief, 
which he had wantonly inflicted on the reverend and 
aged man before him, became inflicted on himself; and 
he mentally resolved, never to tell another he during his 
life. 

"And," continued Father Connell, after another pause 
of abstraction — " not to talk of Edmund Fennell, I had a 
love for that unfortunate young lady, too. When Neddy 
was a poor, deserted, small boy, and when I went out to 
beg for him, she was a beautiful and a delightful little 
creature; I give you my word, Tom Naddy, she bestowed 
on me her Christmas-box — half a golden guinea— her little 



FATHER COM NELL. 231 

board, tliat she had reserved for buying toys — to relieve 
him and his poor mother ; yes, I loved Neddy Fennell, and 
I loved that beautiful little child ; but both of them, Tom 
Naddy, my good boy, have taught me that the purest affec- 
tions of this sinful, ugly world, are good for nothing — are 
good for nothing — nothing ; the Lord be praised I And 
the Lord grant me strength to bear it, as I ought !" but, 
notwithstanding his endeavors at Christian resignation, 
Father ConnelTs affliction of spirit increased, and he wept 
plentifully. 

As soon as he could speak, he resumed. 

" But God help them ; God help them, poor, sinful 
children ; they have not, by their sinfulness, brought 
happiness to themselves, no more than to me ; God help 
them!" 

There was another pause, and he spoke again. 

" Tom Naddy, my very good boy, it is not my opinion 
that Neddy Fennell will oppose himself to his old priest, 
and — as I may call myself, without much boasting — to his 
old benefactor. No, Tom, I do not think he will oppose 
himself to me, when I warn him, and caution him, and beg 
of him, with tears in my eyes, to abandon his great sin — 
will he, Tom? Do you think he will?" 

" In truth, sir, I'm very sure he won't" 

" Well then, Tom, send him to me ; perhaps he will be 
afraid or loath to come ; but tell him from me, that if he is 
only very sorry, I will not be hard or stern with him ; tell 
him that the Lord of heaven and earth is never harsh 
with repenting sinners ; and that I, the Lord's poor 
priest, and lowliest servant, will not be more severe than 
his Master and mine. Send him to me, Tom, send him to 
me." 

"I will, sir. But, sir— " 

" Well, Tom, my good boy ?" 

" I may be spakin' wrong, sir ; but what is to become ov 
poor Miss Helen?" 

The old man started. 

"That is true, Tom, and very true. Edmund Fennell is 
bound before God and man, to repair the misfortune he 
has caused. And that dear, tender-hearted child, is she to 
be abandoned to the world's scorn, and to the danger of 
continued offences, towards her Almighty maker ? Sit you 



282 FATHER CONNELL. 

there, Tom, mj good boy, till I come back to yon, I will go 
up-stairs to my own room for a while." 

He left the little parlor, and Tom Naddy could hear him 
ascend the creaking old stairs, and then fall suddenly on 
his knees in his bed-room. 

Naddy remained very uncomfortable, during the consid- 
erable tune he was absent. The solemnity of the priest's 
actions and manner, his deep sensibility, upon which the 
liar had not calculated, awed and dismayed him. The fear 
of detection, too, either by Edmund Fennell or Father Con- 
nell, broke suddenly, for the first time, upon him, and he 
began to be really terrified. And yet did Tom endeavor 
to regain his equilibrium, by assuring himself that he was 
" doing everything for the best," and that but for him very 
dire mishaps must certainly occur. 

Father Connell reappeared before him ; there was now a 
fixed seriousness and a determination on the old gentle- 
man's face. 

"I have thought over this unfortunate business, Tom 
Naddy," he said, " as carefully and as diligently as I was 
capable of, with, I hope, sincere prayer to assist me ; and 
it appears to me that there is nothing to save these two 
unhappy young creatures, except a very extreme step. 
And there is great danger to all parties in such a measure. 
But worldly considerations are not to be kept in mind 
when our duty to God and our neighbor is to be performed. 
He was here himself, a while ago, to ask me to marry him 
privately to Helen M'Neary. But he did not place before 
me the real grounds for his request, and thinking him only 
influenced by youthful inclination — and I feared, selfish 
inclination — and feeling that I had no authority, on such a 

Elea, to outrage the feelings of the young girl's father, and 
is good friend, and mine, Tom — and at the same time to 
offend the law of the land, I refused, his application. Bui 
now the case is altered, terribly altered. Go to Edmund 
Fennell, and tell him, from me, to come here this evening, 
with his poor partner in error, and I will marry him to 
her." 

" God bless your Reverence, an' I'll tell him so ; bud he' 
very much in awe ov you, an' no wonther — " 

"If he had been in awe of me, Tom Naddy, he would not 
have risen up against me in the strength of this heavy sin ; 



FATHER CONNELL. 

or, if he had loved me, he would not have wrung my old 
heart, by showing to me that all my care for him was sown 
in an ungrateful soiL" 

" Bud I know he'd be in awe ov you another way, sir.** 

" How so, my good boy, Tom ?" 

" 111 go bail that when he comes he'd be denyin' every- 
thing, to save himself from your anger, sir." 

" Well ; and it is likely enough that he may endeavor to 
impose on me. One sin brings on many. But I will not, 
for the present, tempt him to add falsehood to his other 
transgressions. I will not, for the present, even listen to 
any of his denials. I will stop his speech the moment he 
attempts them. But he shall not, therefore, escape me 
without making the first atonement he can make for his 
offence against God and man. Go now, Tom, and deliver 
my message to him." 

" An' I will, sir, an' wid all my heart. But sir, there is 
one other little thing you won't be angry wid me fur 
sayin'. If ever he comes to know who it was that tould 
on him, sir, you know I couldn't stand the counthry ageri 
him, sir." 

"Have no fears on that head, Tom. He shall never 
know from me the name of my informant, though I have 
hopes, under God's blessing, that at a future day he will 
become his own accuser, and admit everything to me. Go 
now, Tom, at once, and tell him to be here this evening, 
and I will marry him." 

Tom did go at once ; and for the first time in his life he 
did not whistle as he went. Nor was his usual lazy, 
lounging gait that in which he now made way. In fact, 
he raced along the streets at his utmost speed, as if he 
would leave behind him something of which he was very 
much in dread, although they were only his own almost 
palpable misgivings, fears, and regrets, that pressed close 
to his heels, like a pack of little our-dogs, yelping and snarl- 
ing, and occasionally biting him— at all events driving him 
furiously forward. 

Edmund Fennell did not know him, as he approached 
their appointed place of meeting, so very much changed 
was his whole expression, indeed, as well as action. 
Coining near, however, Tom was soon recognizable. 

"Well, Tom 9 " questioned Edmund, as much out of 



234 FATHER CONNKLL. 

breath from impatience as was his ambassador from 
speed. 

" Well, Masther Neddy. Faix, an' it's well it is, sore 
enough ; very well intirely for you ; bud fur other poor 
people that you get to put themselves into such scrapes, 
it's anything bud well, I'm thinkin'." 

" Why, what's the matter ? What* s the answer ? Does 
he consent? 1 ' 

" Arrah, to be sure he does, sir. Go to him this evenin', 
wid Miss Helen, an' hell marry you to your heart's con- 
tent ; bud see here, Masther Neddy— frum this moment, I 
wash my hands ov all your plottin,' schamin' ways ; an' 
good-bye to you now; it's too long I'm from home— an' 
I suppose there's somethin' else mighty pleasant waitin' 
there fur me, on your account ; good-bye to you, Masther 
Neddy." 

Edmund seized him by the collar, as he was darting off, 
and shaking him heartily, said : — 

"What %8 the matter with you, you incomprehensible 
fellow? Have you gone mad? Give me the answer, from 
Father Gonnell, clearly and coolly, or I'll — " 

" An' havn't you id already, sir ? What do you mane by 
me, at all ? Let me be off home — th' ould priest bid me 
tell you to come up wid her this evenin', and he'll settle 
your points fur you. What more can I say ? — Thundher- 
an-turf, let me go! May I die in sin, if I ever say a word 
more, now or fur ever, amin, on the unloocky subject. 
Take your hand o' me, sir !" 

"Away then!" and Edmund let him bound off, as a 
hound out of the leash. 

" One of his periodical visitations, with very, very long 
intervals between," said Edmund to himself, " but I know 
I can depend upon his information ; and so be thou, Miss 
Bessy Lanigan, as fortunate with Helen as this myster- 
ious rascal has been with Father Connell — nay. even with 
yourself — and I am the happiest of the happy, for ever !" 

But Edmund was not, after all, about to take the true 
road to happiness. 



FATHER CONNRLL. 285 



CHAPTEE XXVUL 



Since Tom Naddy*s boyish days, when, it will be recol- 
lected, he got Ned Fennell into trouble, on the score of a 
certain letter, Father Connell had found him attentive, 
faithful, honest, and seemingly religious, and, therefore, 
placed full reliance in Tom. All doubt} of his want of truth 
left the good man's mind ; and he had consequently 
received his late communications with implicit faith. In- 
deed, such was Father ConnelTs virtuous and primitive 
character, that he could not even suspect dissimulation in 
any one whom he once trusted. And these facts, joined 
with Tom's inimitable plausibility of speech and manner, 
ensured success to him on the present occasion. 

Shortly after nightfall, on that day, three persons, 
silently ushered in by Mrs. Molloy, entered the priest's 
parlor. They were Edmund Fennell, Helen M'Neary, and 
Miss Bessy Lanigan. 

Even under the circumstances, and with the accompani- 
ments, which attend a marriage celebrated in the more 
usual way — amidst the blessings of parents — crowds of 
friends— publicity and banquetting — there is something of 
doubt, of awe, of uncertainty for the future, which op- 
presses, even unto sorrow, a right-minded and pure-hearted 
girL 

But much more than this Helen M'Neary must have felt, 
in her present situation. She had stolen through the gloom 
of the evening, and in disguise, to vow her marriage vow, 
under the ministry of a clergyman, not of her own religious 
creed. Excepting her future husband, she came supported 
but by one friend, and that one an individual for whom she 
had but little respect. No father stood by her side, to give 
her away and to bless her — she feared that she was about 
to cause him to curse her — she wore no bridal ornaments 
nor robe ; and her single bridesmaid was in a similar pre- 
dicament All this had a most depressing effect upon her 
spirits. But there was much more to weigh her down. 
She now felt that she had consented to this private mar- 
riage hastily, and more in anger against her father's 
peremptory measures than — notwithstanding her love for 



236 FATHER CONNELL. 

Edmund Fennell — in a conviction of its absolute necessity, 
or even of the force of the arguments which had been used 
to persuade her to the step ; and altogether, upon entering 
the priest's humble little house, she experienced a sense of 
unmaidenly impropriety, that sunk her in her own estima- 
tion, and a terror of future consequences, which made her 
heart sick. 

She crossed the threshold of the priest's parlor door. 
He sat alone to a little table, stern, sorrowful, cheerless ; 
the ray of his single economical candle was cheerless too. 
His eye met Helen's; there was something in it which 
made her tremble. Father Connell merely bowed his head 
to his breast, as the party one and all saluted him. Ed- 
mund felt his bride hang heavier upon his arm. 

And Edmund became almost as much agitated as was 
Helen. He knew his old benefactor well, and he felt 
certain that this cold silence, so different from Father 
Connell's usual cheeriness of manner, betokened anything 
but approval of the marriage which was about to ensue. 

Slowly rising, after he had lowered his head, the priest 
motioned them to sit down. He then bent his knees on 
the chair from which he had arisen, covered his face with 
his hands, and apparently prayed. Perhaps he detected 
himself in a greater show of harshness, towards the poor 
young couple, than he had promised them, and that a por- 
tion of his prayers petitioned for grace to bear with them, 
more like a Christian. After some time, he stood up again, 
put on his stole, and turning over the leaves of his missal, 
he fixed his eyes on the little group, and said, in a sad and 
solemn tone — " Come forward — I am ready." 

Edmund and Miss Lanigan immediately rose, but Helen 
remained sitting. Edmund held out his arm to her. She 
made one or two unavailing efforts to take it. 

"Why do you not come forward?" inquired the old 
priest. 

Edmund answered, in a whisper, and with a choking 
throat, "Miss M'Neary is not very well, sir ; but she will 
recover soon — she has fainted, sir." 

Father Connell almost ran across the room ; he saw the 
fair young girl insensible and helpless ; he saw her usually 
brilliant cheek pale as paper ; his sternness vanished in an 
instant, his features relaxed into a benign expression of 



FATHER CONNELL. 287 

impassion and anxiety, and he took in hit* one of her 
*old, deadened hands, and chafed it eagerly. 

" God bless you, God bless you, my poor child," he mur- 
mured in tones of shivering tenderness. 

Helen M'Neary stirred, sighed, looked up into his face, 
let fall her forehead on his hand, and burst into agonies of 
tears. 

" Don't — don't cry, my poor child ; God is good, and he 
will give you grace, and strength, and repentance; put 
your trust in the Lord, my dear child, and he will support 
you. Peggy! Peggy I" he cried out, in his loudest voice. 

Peggy, who was quite within hail, was very soon at her 
master's elbow. 

" Peggy, this poor, dear little child, this good, charitable 
little girl, is Very ill and weakly — Peggy, you know what 
would be good for her, better than I do — Peggy," he added 
in a whisper, " don't you think a glass of wine would do 
her good? I think it would, Peggy." 

" Why thin, what else in the world wide, would do her 
half so much good ?" questioned Peggy, dogmatically. 

"I am much recovered now, sir," said Helen M'Neary, 
once more looking up, with streaming eyes, into his face. 

" Oh, you will be better, my dear, you will be better. 
Peggy, go into the closet," he pointed to one in which the 
wine for the alter was kept — " I know there is some wine 
on the shelf : bring it here quickly." 

Peggy soon obeyed his commands ; her coarse exterior 
covered a tender heart — provided always that Peggy was 
allowed her own method of indulging its impulses. Under 
her soothing attentions, Helen gradually grew stronger and 
more collected. 

Father Connell regained the further side of the room. 
Under the influence of this accidental appeal to his com- 
passion, scarce a trait of his severity of manner remained. 
And as soon as Helen was quite able to engage in the cere- 
mony, she and Edmund FenneU were, by his ministry, 
united as husband and wife, " to have and to hold," until 
death. Peggy was allowed to be a witness on the occasion ; 
and it was with the heartiest good will, that she saw "her 
own dear boy," married to so lovely a partner for life. 

Upon Peggy's hasty entrance into the parlor, she had 
left the door open ; from the position, in which Edmund 



288 FATHER CONNELL. 

and Helen stood up to the ceremony, they could see out 
through it, into the almost perfectly dark halL The priest 
had scarcely ended his official duties, when Helen fancied 
she descried, leaning against the wall of the hall, a female 
figure. Starting back, and glancing again, she became 
sure that a living thing did Hit away, through the darkness, 
out of view. The next moment, from some place in the 
house, more distant than the hall, the low, and seemingly 
smothered wailing of a young, and very musical voice, was 
heard, accompanied by a slight noise, as if of gentle clap- 
ping of hands. Father Connell looked at Peggy, somewhat 
reprehensively, and Peggy looked at him deprecatingly ; 
and then she left the room, now carefully closing the door 
after her. The next moment, the low wailing, with its 
accompaniment, were heard no longer. Helen wondered, 
and even vaguely feared something, but. made no inquiries 
of any one. 

This little incident scarcely occupied as much time, as 
could cause any interruption to the business going on. 
Father Connell now turned to Edmund. 

"Edmund Fennell," he said, "these ladies, your wife, 
and her friend, will pardon us, if we leave them together, 
for a moment. Come you with me. I wish to hold some 
conversation with von. Follow me." 

Edmund accordingly walked after the old clergyman, up 
to his bedroom ; — the little parlor was the only reception 
room in the house. 

"Sit down there, Neddy Fennell;" Father Connell 
pointed to a chair, while he fastened the door. He then 
paced for a considerable time up and down, and at length 
spoke again. 

"Neddy Fennell, I have brought you here, to hold some 
very serious discourse with you. I have brought you here, 
to toy if the words of your old friend, and your old priest, 
will have any weight with you. Will you be attentive to 
me, Neddy Fennell?" 

" I will, sir — thoroughly and reverently attentive." 

" Well ! And you must make me a promise, beforehand, 
Neddy Fennell You must promise me that you will not 
even attempt to reply to anything I shall say, unless I 
require an answer to a question." 

"Anything that you point out, sir, I will obey." 



FATHER CONNELL. 239 

That is not a distinct answer to my distinct proposition. 
Tc \ are to promise, that you will not reply to my words — 
that yon are to remain perfectly silent — unless I ask you a 
question— do you promise that?" 

"I do, sir." 

"Neddy Fennell, I have been a friend to you, because I 
loved you. From your infancy I loved you ; from the very 
first day that you came to give your childish assistance at 
the altar of God, I loved you. A change came over your 
life, even while you were yet a child, and you wanted a 
hand to be held out to you, and my hand was so held out to 
you; — and I do not now mention these things through 
vain-glory — God forbid I did — but from the necessity of 
the case before us. 

" And I tried to do you more good, much more good 
than this. By precepts, and I humbly hope by example, I 
tried to fill your heart with the fear and the love of G od. 
But I did not expect that you were to pay me back my love 
of you, and my care for you, with money or with worldly 
goods ; I will tell you, however, what I did expect I did 
expect and believe, that you would have shown your sense 
of thankfulness to me, by honoring and serving the Lord. 
Neddy Fennell, you have disappointed me ; sorely disap- 
pointed me, and sorely, sorely afflicted me." 

" Gracious Heavens, sir ! — I — " 

" Remember your promise, and listen to me, Neddy Fen- 
nell," Father Connell raised his finger, and frowned on the 
young man. "Neddy Fennell, you have sinned a great 
sin." 

" Father Connell I hear me, sir !" 

"Silence, you Edmund Fennell! and again remember 
your promise — remember it literally. I will not hear you 
at present ; at a future time I will It is now your duty to 
attend to my counsel, and to let me gain a future hope for 
you, by witnessing your docility, and your humility under 
yourpriest's reproof. 

" The onlv recompense, Neddy Fennell, I will over ask, 
or receive from you, for my love to you your whole life 
long; is your solemn resolution, to avoid, from this day for- 
ward, future sin ; and to keep that resolution, and to be 
sorry, and to repent for the past — be silent, I command 
you once more, or I must think that you are impatient of 



240 FATHER CONNKLL. 

jour old priest's rebuke, and that would be a bad sign in* 
deed. 

*' You are now, though a very young man, a married 
man. No matter what may have occurred up to this 
moment, you are bound to love and cherish your wife ; to 
love her above all, except your God ; to be faithful and 
true to her ; to cherish ner beyond yourself, or the whole 
world besides; — you solemnly engage to do this, with 
God's assistance? 

" With God's assistance, sir, I most solemnly engage to 
do this." 

" I hope you will ; nay, I almost — I quite believe you 
will , and indeed, indeed, I will pray that you may obtain 
the grace to do so. Neddy FenneiL, up to this very mo- 
ment, I love you; and I have just proved it to you. 
Answer me this question, and answer it truly. When you 
came here this evening, had you any knowledge of the 
danger tb*t I should run, in marrying you to that poor 
child? Answer me this truly, as if you were replying at 
the judgment-seat." 

" I solemnly protest, sir, as if I were answering at the 
judgment-seat^ that I did not know you must incur any 
danger, by uniting us in marriage." 

"And, Neddy, notwithstanding all that has passed, I 
believe what you now say. I do not think you would wil- 
lingly subject your old friend, and your priest, to the peril 
in which I have voluntarily placed myself. For, Neddy, I 
have, this night, subjected myself to a felon's punishment 
for your sake, and, as I said before, out of my love for you. 
To save you from continued sin, I have married you to a 
' Protestant ; and if, for doing this, I be prosecuted and 
convicted, the law of the land will send me, a banished 
felon, from this country. Its punishment for my act is, 
transportation beyond the seas for life." 

"Merciful powers l" cried Edmund, starting up, "why 
Was I ignorant of this law? Oh, my dear, my beloved, and 
venerated father, I knew not what I was doing 1" 

" I have told you, Neddy Fennell, that I believed your 
former assertion on the point. And yet, with my eyes 
open, I did this for you, and you cannot, therefore, doubt 
that I love you still Now, attend to me again. 

" I have loved you ever since you were a little ohild^-I 



FATHER CCHVELL. 241 

have proved that I love you yet. Tou have been criminal 
— repent, amend, atone. Above all things, mark my 
words ; take your wife to your bosom ; cast no word of 
reproach or slight upon her; be unto her true, loving, 
tender, and cherishing ; if you wish to show me that you 
are grateful, this is the gratitude I look for. Lead a good 
life, and let your wife find in you a Christian husband. As 
▼ou hope for a future blessing, and if you value my death- 
bed prayers, do all this, my son/' 

Ned Fennell threw himself on his knees before the old 
man, clasping both his hands together. 

" Just as you now are," said Father Connell, holding his 
right arm on high, "just as you now are, renew the pro- 
mise before Heaven and me. 

" Before Heaven, and before you, sir, I renew the pro- 
mise to do all this." 

" Well. Eise now." The priest offered him his hand, 
and as he obeyed, gave it one of the old squeezes to which 
it was so well accustomed. Still, however, he was grave 
and reserved, though not severely so. 

" And, Neddy Fennell, we will now go down stairs, and 
you will take your wife to you and comfort her, and love 
her. You must call to see me to-morrow, that we may 
confer on your future plans ; and how for this circumstance 
may have to do with them. I fear that it will have a great 
deal to do with them. But we will hope for the best. 
Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof." 

He led Edmund by the hand to his bride. The young 
couple, with their friend, arose to depart He accompanied 
them to the outer door of his little premises, and there, 
before bidding them good-night, gave tnem anew his hearty 
and affectionate benediction. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 



Oh the night of the fire in Nick M'Grath's hay-loft, and 
previous to that occurrence, it will be brought to mind, 
that after his interview with the beggar-girl in Joan Fla- 



242 FATHER CONNELL. 

herty's house, Edmund Fennell paid a visit, on her account 
to Father ConnelL He communicated to the old man aU 
he knew concerning her. He described the shocking out- 
rages, which, to his own knowledge, she constantly endured 
from Robin Costigan ; fully detailing the scene he had wit- 
nessed from the top of the dividing wall, when he was a 
little boy, and an inmate of Nelly Carty's cabin. He dwelt 
on the poor girl's terror of the old beggarman ; her tears 
and wailings ; her rooted dislike of the life she was leading 
under his rule ; her wish to change that life, and escape 
from Costigan ; and her ever-recurring dread, that if she 
attempted to do so, her fearful tyrant would inevitably 
track her out, and kOl her. He reminded the priest of her 
uttei ignorance of religion, a fact which Father Connell 
himself had ascertained; but enlarged on her religious 
tendencies, notwithstanding, discoverable in her hatred of 
what was bad : her sympathy with what was good and gen- 
erous ; her appreciation of a charitable act ; and her meek 
submission under cruel persecution. 

Passing from his boyish, almost childish acquaintance 
with poor Mary, Edmund then took up an account of their 
re-meeting, after an interval of so many years, in Nick 
M'Grath's shop that very evening. He proceeded with 
their conversation in one of the shower of houses. Father 
Connell, struck with a new interest, although he had been 
sufficiently interested before, drew from Edmund, by con- 
tinued questions, a very minute statement of this interview; 
not only as to what was said during it, but also as to what 
had occurred between the two young people. The lad 
could not help blushing, but he was perfectly able to meet 
every inquiry with the consistency of fearless truth. His 
old protector proposed other questions, and he also met 
them to the priest's satisfaction. It could not be denied, 
he admitted, that the poor, untaught young girl, regarded 
him with feelings that would have been improper, if in- 
dulged, as she seemed to indulge them, by any person at 
all instructed on moral, social, or religious points; but 
Edmund submitted that from the whole experience of her 
young life, it was impossible she could ever have been 
taught the impropriety of giving way to such feelings; 
indeed, her very avowals of them, open and ingenuous as 
they were, proved as much ; and did they not also prove 



FATHER COHHELL. 248 

another thing ? Did they not also prove, that she herself 
did not know the tendency, the range, the very nature of all 
that she now vaguely and ineipiently felt 

Father GonneU laid his hand on Edmund's shoulder, and 
smiling benignly, nodded to him at once an assent to his 
proposition and an encouragement to go on. 

Availing himself of the permission, Edmund proceeded 
to relate, how, according to Mary's own account, she still 
suffered from the gross and brutal treatment of Costigan ; 
how her aversion to her present course had even increased 
since Edmund and she last met, but how, at the same time, 
her fear of being murdered by Costigan bound her to it 
He turned to her aspirations after a good and virtuous life ; 
to the truth of her sentiments towards all, in outward 
nature, from which she had had an opportunity of study- 
ing a good lesson ; to the gifted order of her mind, evident 
through all the clouds of neglect, and of youthful sorrow 
which hung around it He ventured to allude to the 
great beauty of her person and features ; nor was his old 
listener displeased with the allusion ; for beauty of heart 
has a certain pure and holy sympathy, even in the breast 
of well-disciplined old age, with outward personal beauty 
in youth; and Edmund, waxing eloquent, concluded, by 
asking Father Oonnell to decide whether it would not be a 
charitable and a delightful action to rescue, for society and 
for God, a creature like Mary Oooney, by snatching her 
from the power of Robin Costigan, from his murderous 
threats, and his probable execution of them ; and from his 
evil ways and bad example, a continuance in, and observa- 
tion of which, might, notwithstanding her present disposi- 
tions, end in her moral ruin. 

"I will ask you only one question more, Neddy Fennell, 
my child," said Father Connell ; " and you will answer that 
question truly— I know you will, Neddy." 

"I will, sir." 

" I know very well you will, Neddy. What are your own 
feelings towards this poor, young creature ?" 

" I pity her from my heart, sir ; I have a great respect 
and regard for her keeping herself so long good, in the 
midst of wicked example ; I have a great interest in her 
future well-doing; and I feel towards her, short as our 



244 FATHER CONNRUL 

acquaintance has been, the foil friendship that a brother 
feels for a sister." 

" And yon have no other feelings for her V* 

"None, sir/' 

"Then, Neddy, my child, she shall indeed, with God's 
blessing, be saved from Robin Gostigan's hand. He shall 
not kill either her body or her soul ; no, Neddy, that wicked 
man shall not. I will take her from him. Under this poor 
roof she shall have an opportunity, at least, of growing to 
be a good woman, and a useful woman, and a faithful ser- 
vant of the Lord. I will go this very evening and take her 
from Robin Gostigan ; ay, and 111 make him give her up 
to me, without a word. I am not afraid of the bad man, 
Neddy ; no, I am not afraid of him, Neddy, my good child. 
And go you home, now, Neddy, to your business for the 
night ; go you home to your good old master's house ; and 
go straight home to it, And may you have a reward, Ned- 
dy, for your charitable and for your virtuous intentions 
towards that poor, uninstructed, unbefriended orphan child. 
Good-night, Neddy, and take my blessing. I will see Mary 
Gooney this very evening." 

But Father Gonnell was detained at home by a visitor, on 
business of a most urgent nature, too long to perform his 
promise. Indeed it was much past his usual hour for re- 
tiring to bed, when the person went away. Some time 
after, the fire-bell struck on his ear. He hurried into the 
town with strong fears, as has been seen, for Ned Fennell ; 
and all that he did subsequently is also known. In the 
first early light of the morning he led the poor beggar-girl 
home. 

His house-keeper, Mrs. Molloy, had not been left quite 
unacquainted with his intentions towards Mary Gooney. 
In fact, it was the housekeeper's opinion that Father Gon- 
nell had consulted her, very confidentially, on the matter ; 
nay, in order to reconcile her to the. introduction of a new 
inmate into her establishment, that he had made a very 
powerful appeal to her feelings ; and this, even Mrs. Mol- 
loy'e sense of her own respectability could not withstand. 
She was, therefore, prepared to receive poor Mary with 
something akin to graciousness of manner. 

At Mrs. Molloy's kitchen fire, then, Mary was soon sit- 
ting, bareheaded, barefooted, and otherwise half clothed ; 



FATHER COOTSLL. 245 

the scraps of attire which she did wear being wet, from the 
inclemency of the day before ; while her little feet were 
splashed with puddle, and blood-stained, too, from the 
bleeding of sore cracks and wounds in them. 

Tears were in her eyes, smiles were on her lips, and short, 
happy sighs fluttered every moment, like so many small 
birds let loose one after the other, from the depths of her 
heart. She looked around her, scanning the humble little 
kitchen ; it was a drawing-room to her ; never in her life 
before had she sat to such a fire, nor in an apartment half 
bo luxurious — so sumptuous. She looked at Mrs. Molloy, 
and at her high-heeled shoes and at her high-cauled cap, 
and deemed her a person of very great importance ; and 
Mrs. Molloy was not slow in observing the effect her supe- 
riority had produced ; and thus Mary was all the better of 
her mute and unconscious sycophancy. 

Father Connell having warned and commanded his 
housekeeper not to speak for the present with the beggar- 
girl, on her own affairs, and his housekeeper obeying him, 
for a wonder, few words, except words of kindness, passed 
between her and the young stranger at her hearth. She 
busily engaged herself preparing the priest's breakfast ; 
and at all her proceedings Mary still looked on, with won- 
der and curiosity. 

Father Oonnell had been out about an hour. He now 
returned, and called out from the parlor for " Peggy !" and 
Peggy, answering his summons, found that he had brought 
home a pair of shoes and a pair of stockings, for his new 
protegee, together with materials, very humble indeed, for 
dressing her out from head to foot But until the latter 
could be made up, he earnestly consulted Peggy upon the 
best thing to be done, towards obtaining present substitutes 
for them. Peggy, after a pause, and bargaining for per- 
mission to have her own way in the matter, sallied forth 
from the house, and quickly came back, laden, however she 
had procured them, with a little stock of the necessaries 
required. They had been used, indeed, but were clean, 
neat, and respectable, and Mrs. Molloy averred, would fit 
Mary to a T, for she thanked Providence she had eyes in 
her head. Her master approving of everything, Mrs. Mol- 
loy swept the table clear of its little heap of habiliments 
ready made and raw materials for the same ; and the next 



246 FATHER CJNNELL. 

instant, she and her young friend were busily engaged in 
the housekeeper's room, off the kitchen. 

Father Connell would not — could not sit down to break- 
fast, pending the great change that was going on under his 
roof. He walked about his parlor, bolt upright, champoo- 
ing the palms of his hands, very, very mat, and smiling 
smiles, as fresh as those of childhood. At last, the parlor 
door opened, and Mary Oooney, ablutions and the other 
business of the toilet all gone through, appeared before 
him ; Mrs. Molloy — as if Mary bodily and altogether were 
of her construction, and not merely the tie of the bau-knot 
of her cap, leading her in, with an air of great self-appro- 
bation. The old man stood .still, and his smiling features 
half changed into an expression of surprise, at the vision 
of the beautiful creature he now gazed upon. Her newly 
polished face, burning with blushes, caused by her shyness 
of her fine clothes, and her blue eyes scintillating and en- 
larged, with a new-come excitement, the beggar-girl did 
appear, indeed, surpassingly lovely. 

He was struck too with her likeness to Helen M'Neary — 
as any one might have been ; and he thanked Heaven, in a 
silent aspiration, that his good child, Neddy Fennell, had 
been the means, under God, of directing his attention to 
the salvation, here and hereafter, of a creature so interest- 
ing in every way. 

But this purely grave state of feeling, anon and quickly 
passed into a characteristic mode of expressing his delight, 
in the change for the better, wrought upon her outward 
appearance. As he has been seen to do, while the little 
ma-a-clad boys, were passing him in the bosheen, he bent 
himself, resting his hands upon his knees, admiring her 
finery, and then, standing straight, and laughing to him- 
self, clapped the palms of his hands together softly, and 
declared to Peggy, that nothing on the face of the earth 
could be better ; and, as will also be called to mind, in the 
same way that he had turned Mick Dempsey round and 
round, and walked round and round him, in approbation 
of Mick's first new suit of respectable clothes, he now 
turned Mary Cooney round and round, and walked round 
her. At length, the inspection over, he dismissed Mary 
and her new protectress to their breakfasts in the kitchen* 
and then sat down to his own, very happy. 



FATHER CONNELL. 247 

But though Mary was happy too, even to tears, which 
constantly streamed rm> she made bnt little impression on 
the dainties before her, at least not one-half, nor one-third 
enough, to satisfy the ostentatious hospitality of Mrs. Mol- 
loy. The poor girl's mind had been suddenly stopped, and 
turned back in the circle in which it was wont to revolve, 
and though all was very blissful, all was, from its novelty, 
still very confusing. She did not yet understand, nor dis- 
tinctly feel her changed position. She glanced shyly from 
one point to another of her new attire. She studiously 
regarded, above all things, her new shoes and stockings, 
and particularly admired the smallness of her feet, now 
shut up, for the first time, within limits which controlled 
their usual flatness and expansion. Opposite to her was a 
mirror hanging on a nail in the wall, of about six inches in 
height and three in breadth, at which Mrs. Molloy, upon a 
sudden call from the parlor, used to adjust her cap and her 
strong wiry hair ; and into this Mary could look at her own 
race, with its recent decorations ; and all these little thing? 
at first deeply occupied her, almost to the exclusion of anj 
other sentiment or feeling. 

Father Oonnell went out on business, and she was left 
alone with the housekeeper, at the kitchen fire. After a 
while, recollection began to engage her. Darby Cooney, 
was she indeed safe from his hand ? She asked Mrs. Mol- 
loy to give her assurance on the subject. The housekeeper, 
still obeying her master's instructions, asked, in return, 
how could she know anything about it ? And who was 
Darby Cooney ? But wasn't she safe at present ; and 
wasn't she with friends, who would keep hurt and harm far 
away from her ? And wouldn't the priest answer every- 
thing to her, when he came back to the house ? and Mrs. 
Molloy admonished her not to go. on thinking any more of 
what was past and gone, but to stir herself, and come with 
her, Mrs. Molloy, and inspect the " nate " house she was 
in, and the garden it had to it ; and after that, the elegant 
chapel, and the beautiful church-yard, only half a stone's 
throw from her. 

Mary had other questions to ask, but she suppressed 
them. She arose, stumbling for the first time in her life, 
from the cramping effects of the first pair of shoes she had 
ever worn, her feet swollen by the influence of the fire, as 



248 FATHER CONNELL. 

well as by their novel state of captivity ; and followed Mrs 
Molloy on the proposed tour of discovery. 

She had been in the parlor for a moment before, bat 
under such circumstances, as only to have felt embarrassed 
with an overpowering sense of its importance. Now she 
dwelt, under Mrs. Molloy's special instructions, on each 
article of furniture it contained. A small glass bookcase, 
filled with books, sparingly and smearingly gilt on the 
backs, particularly attracted her attention and her wonder ; 
she did not think that there were so many books in the 
world, she said. Leaving the parlor, an old eight-day 
clock, almost eight feet high, placed in the little hall, with 
an old brass dial-plate, struck her with great awe, as well 
it might indeed. She stopped before it, and listening to 
its clogged and wheezing tick, tick ; she shrank back, ask- 
ing in a whisper, if there was not something alive within 
it? Mrs. Molloy then pointed out to her the cellarage, 
under the open stairs, with its constant occupant, the half 
barrel of beer, and Mary conceived great notions of the 
abundance of the house. 

They proceeded up stairs to the priest's bed-room. Here 
were a few little religious prints, " framed and glazed," as 
Mrs. Molloy desired Mary to observe well ; and in a corner 
hung, upon great brass hooks, Father Connell's Sunday 
hat and best wig ; together with the mysterious old chest 
of drawers ; and the young girl felt, she knew not why, an 
indefinable sense of a something — almost dread, which 
made her hurry out of the apartment. 

They passed into the yard. The stable, containing 
Father Connell's fat, strong mare ; the step-ladder going 
up to its hay-loft ; Neddy Fennell's black hole of yore — the 
coal-shed ; the cask to catch rain-water ; the lines to hang 
the house-linen on for drying ; all this, and much more, 
were pointed out to Mary, whose mind still continued to 
fill, and fill with great conceptions of the magnificence of 
the establishment. From the yard into the narrow strip 
of garden — and Mary clapped her hands, and almost 
screamed out with pleasure. Small as was the little lot of 
ground, it was neatly kept, at all seasons of the year, and 
even now, on a November day, looked trim and pretty. 
Such vegetables, of the ordinary sort, as the month pro- 
duced, were well taken care of ; unoccupied ground was 



FATHER CONNKTX. 249 

flag up, and raked, and in clean order ; the little walks 
were newly gravelled ; fruit-trees were primed, and nicely 
nailed to the walls ; and though the little garden's blow of 
humble flowers was of course over, there still remained the 
white and pink flower of the laurestinus, and here and 
there bunches of monthly roses and rosebuds. Mary was 
in a paradise. Never before had she seen a garden great 
or small, and now the order, the neatness, the beauty of 
this little one, no matter on how reduced a scale, struck 
upon chords prepared by Almighty nature to vibrate to 
them, in her souL She glowed with a new pleasure. It 
was as if a garden had suddenly and freshly sprung up, 
amid the hitherto moral wilderness of her own mind. She 
prayed, she begged of Mrs. Molloy to let her pluck one 
rose — no, one rosebud — only one ; the old lady consented, 
and as Mary placed it under her young bosom, it sparkled 
with her tears. 

They left the enchanted root, and proceeded up the silent 
little approach to the chapel, walled at in either side. They 
arrived at the very limited space before the chapel, almost 
entirely covered with the branches of a large lime, having a 
stone bench under it Mary sat down on the bench, looking 
earnestly around her. 

"And was that a chapel? — a chapel of God?" — she 
asked of Mrs. Molloy, in a whispering voice, pointing to 
the low-built and rude little edifice, now straight before 
her. 

Her cicerone answering affirmatively, unlocked the 
chapel door, and invited her to enter it She did so. 

Since leaving the priest's house, all had been as silent as 
the tomb around her ; and the silence still continued, as 
they stepped into the humble place of worship. What the 
wonders of St. Peter's have been, and are to others, the 
wonders of this little chapel were to poor Mary. Its little 
galleries, propped by wooden uprights— they scarce merited 
a better name ; its little chandelier, also of wood, and cov- 
ered with dingy gilding ; its little altar — gained by a few 
steps; the picture of the crucifixion — not by a Itubens, 
or an Angelo, or a Rembrandt— everything fined her with 
sentiments of awe, admiration, and delight 

" Who is that ?" she whispered, looking up to the picture 
over the altar. 



250 FATHER CONNELL. 

"Our blessed Lord, who died on the cross, to redeem and 
save us," replied Mrs. Molloy, making the holy sign upon 
her forehead. 

" To save us from what?" continued Mary. "Yes! I see 
He is dying — there is blood coming from His side 1" She 
turned pale. 

Mrs. Molloy was at first sorely tempted to burst put, and 
thunder upon Mary's scandalous state of religious ignor- 
ance ; but luckily recollecting Father GonneU's parting 
injunctions, contented herself with causing Mary to retire 
from the chapel, and return home with her. Arrived at 
the priest's house, and while passing its little yard, Mary 
glanced wistfully to the garden-gate. 

" Would you like to go sit in the summer-house till the 
priest comes home ?" inquired Mrs. Molloy. 

It was the very liking most at Mary's heart that moment; 
and she accordingly walked to the little osier bower, at the 
garden's further end, and sat down in it alone. 

In this situation, it cannot be said that Mary distinctly 
thought over anything; and yet her mind was thronged 
with a vast assembly of imperfect thoughts — snatches of 
reflections, and recollections, newly acquired ideas and 
sentiments, hopes, doubts, fears — the buzz of a great 
change going on within her; sometimes a swelling yet 
timid sense of her increasing importance ; sometimes a 
sickening mistrust of herself; and all these abstractions 
dashed over, now and then, by realities which moved her 
very soul ; her terrors of Darby Cooney, at one moment ; 
her reliance upon Father Oonnell's power to protect her 
against him ; her anxieties a contrary way, the next mo- 
ment ; flitting recurrences to Nelly Carty, the woman who 
hod told her she was her daughter ; but, through all, and 
pervading all, and above all, one master idea, that of Ed- 
mund FennelL Was he well? Had he escaped Robin 
Gostigan's revengeful intention? Mary had asked these 
questions of Mrs. Molloy, without obtaining any satis- 
factory replies. And why had he not been to see her 
ever since last night ? And when would he come to see 
her? And was she to stay in the priest's house, or go to 
bis?" 

Profoundly wrapt in her mental confusion, Mary did not 
perceive the approach of a person into the little arbor. 



FATHER CONffELL. 261 

Suddenly her wandering and downcast eye caught a glance 
of his feet, and she uttered a short shriek, and hid her 
face in her hands. But the good priest's voice re-assured 
her. 

She dropped on her knees, and in the whine of her old 
trade, not yet forgotten, poor thing! fervently thanked 
Father Oonnell for hiding her from Darby Oooney, and 
keeping him away ; and prayed blessings from Heaven on 
the priest's head, for all his charities to her. 

Had she been well since morning ? Very well, and very 
Lappy ? And was Mrs. Molloy good and land to her ? 

Mary answered that she had been very well, and very 
happy ; and that Mrs. Molloy was everything that heart 
could wish; and that Darby Oooney had never come "next 
or nigh her" the whole morning. 

" And he never shall, my good little child," said Father 
Oonnell, " I will keep him away from you as long as you 
stay in this house, at least ; 1 have the power over him 
to keep him away ; I am stronger than Darby Oooney." 
Mary began to look puzzled. " Yes, my good little child, I 
am stronger than Darby Oooney ; and all round my house, 
all round my little garden, and all round my chapel, there 
are guards to keep him away from you, my poor child ; 
guards more courageous than soldiers — so, have no fear of 
Darby Cooney's hand now, or for the time to come." 

During this speech, Mary glanced to the tops of the gar- 
den walls, and down the garden into the yard ; but there 
were no guards to be seen, and some misgivings again pos- 
sessed her for a moment ; but it soon occurred to her that 
Father Connell was a good man, and had already done a 
great deal for her, so that whatever he said must be true, 
and she would believe it. 

" An' shure Masther Neddy Fennell didn't come next or 
mgh me ever since last night either, sir," she resumed after 
a while ; and expressing anew gratitude to her protector— 
"Did Darby Oooney do him any harm last night, sir?' 9 
An' was his house afire last night? An' can you tell me, 
mr, why he is away all the morning? An' how soon will he 
come to see me ?" 

Answering these questions in due order, Father Oonnell 
hesitated at the last two, and asked her, " But why do yoq 
want him to come and see you, my good child ? " 



262 father coram* 

"Och, that /may see him at the same time, an* talk to 
him, an' hear him taUrin' to me; an' that I may be near 
him, an' lookin' at him — an' for ever thankin' my tendher- 
hearted boy for his charity, an' his goodness to the poor 
shooting girL" 

" And why do yon want to be looking at him, and talk- 
ing to him, Mary?" 

" Och, och, an' isn't it because the love is on my heart 
for him!" 

It was Father ConneQ's duty, and it had been his inten- 
tion, to frown at this easily foreseen declaration ; but now 
he could not. On the contrary, smiles played around his 
lips, as he stared straight into Mary's face, and remained 
for a moment silent And during that- moment, he made 
up his mind to defer all further notice of the case, plainly 
seeing that it was one of unconscious error, which did not 
call for sternness or severity in his treatment of it. He re- 
sumed speaking, however — and it will be perceived that, 
before entering the little garden, he must nave conferred 
with his housekeeper on her and Mary's adventures during 
the day. 

" Well, poor child, well ; and didn't Mrs. Molloy show 
you the chapel to-day ? " 

" Och, yis, sir, yis ; an' 'tis itself that's the beautiful 

Elace, an' the grand place ; an' there's a beautiful image 
ung up in it, that she tould me was our blessed Lord, 
dyiir on the cross to redeem an' save us — an' och, sure 
enough, the blood was comin' down His side afore my eyes ; 
did He make himself die, sir ? did He kill himself? 

"No, Mary, no ; sinners and wicked people nailed Him 
to that cross until He died upon it" 

" Och, och, an' sure very wicked people they were ; 
people like Darby Gooney, weren't they, sir ? An' tell me 
this, sir, if you plase ; aren't you sthronger nor Darby 
Cooney? an shure you wouldn't let Darby Gooney nail 
you to a crosn, to kill you ? An' wasn't our blessed Lord 
sthronger nor them wicked people? An' why didn't He 
keep 'em ott, an' not let 'em nail Him to a cross and kill 
Him?" 

While imparting instruction to a talented child, the most 
competent preceptor is often baffled by the child's point- 
blank questions. • In answer to such questions a case of 



FATHER CONNELL. 263 

reasoning in series cannot with fitness or advantage be 
attempted, and, without this, the fall dissipation of the 
child's doubt is impracticable. Regarding the present sub- 
ject, in discussion between herself and Father Connell, poor 
Mary's mind was as that of a child, and her question was 
such a one as a child would put, and therefore Father Con- 
nell, smiling again, found a difficulty in meeting it, After 
a short pause, however, he went on. 

" Yes, Mary, yes, my good little girl. He was stronger 
than all those wicked people, and stronger than all the 
people in the world, good as well as wicked; stronger 
than all the kings, and all the priests, and all the grandees, 
and all the armies of the world ; stronger than the whole 
world, my good child; and if it had been His will, the whole 
world could not have hung Him upon that cross : but He 
did not use His strength against the wicked people, Mary ; 
He let thorn put Him upon that cross, in order that He 
might redeem and save us." 

"An" save us from what, sir?" Mary now repeated a 
former question, proposed to Mrs. Molloy. 

" From the punishment due to our sins, my poor child ; 
from the punishment due to our sins." 

Mary paused, and evidently tried in her mind to under- 
stand this proposition ; but Father Connell, watching her, 
saw that die could not — nor had he expected that she 
could. Suddenly, however, her eyes and cheeks glowed ; 
suddenly she gave up the cold process of reasoning ; sud- 
denly she/eft the truth, and said : — ^ 

" Och, och, an' it was a great love that He had on his 
heart for us, sir." 

" That's it, that's it, my good child," resumed Father 
Connell, seizing, and of course squeezing hard both of 
Mary's hands. "That's the very thing, my poor, poor 
girl ; that's the very answer to your own question, as truly 
given as if all the doctors of all the colleges in the wide 
world had found it out for you ; come in now, Mary, my 
dear ; we will talk of this, and of a great deal more, another 
time ; but not soon, not very soon, Mary ; with God's help, 
Mary, you will be a good child, a very good child ; and I 
hope, and I trust, and I believe, a blessed child. Come in, 
now ; come in till we see what Mrs. Molloy has to give us 
tor our dinner : Mrs. Molloy is a good woman, Mary, only a 



264 FATHER CONHELL. 

little rough spoken now and then — a very good woman ; 
and Mrs. MoUoy is beginning to love too, Mary ; and if 
you are good to her, and submissive to her, I am very sure 
she will love yon better and better day by day. Come in 
now, Mary, come in. Peggy!* he cried out, as they ap- 
proached the house? and " Peggy '' resounded through it, 
as Father Connell and his new favorite crossed its thresh* 
old. 

From that day forward Father Connell did not prema- 
turely engage in difficult questions of religion with the 
beggar-girL As if he had had to instruct a mere child, 
indeed, he led her on, step by step, through its more 
flowery paths, and almost according to the routine course 
of childhood* 

Mrs. Molloy, and some good religious women who 
resided together in the neighborhood — the same who, 
dressed in white linen cloaks, sang during vespers, inside 
the railings of the altar — taught her her prayers, day after 
day, and finally her catechism, Father Connell often over- 
seeing them, or calling on Mary, as her lessons went on, to 
account for the faith that was in her ; and his occasional 
conversations with Mary never were without some ques- 
tions on her part, regarding her new and delightful stock 
of knowledge, which it was most pleasing to him, as her 
comprehension grew more enlarged, to answer satisfac- 
torily. Her progress was surprising. In about nine 
months the priest deemed her fit to approach her first 
communion ; and she was also baptized on the same day. 
Oh, happy, happy was Mary, while she went through the 
business of that day, clad in her white muslin dress, and 
her cap with white ribbons in it Happy, and yet tearful ; 
proud of the day, and of herself, and yet the humblest of 
the Vimble. It was a time of flowers, too, and Mary had 
t v * J all around her. 

^''ButTather^^^nell encountered a little more difficulty 
in removing from her mind a certain impression. Becur- 
rence must again be made to the first days she spent under 
his roof. Her question of — "Bud when would Masther 
Neddy Fennell come ?" was almost ceaseless, and the priest 
at first only told her why he could not come. His old 
master was so ill, and he was so much engaged. " But if 
the whole world was dyin' I'd go see my tender-hearted 



FATHER GONNELL. 265 

boy," she said. Nick M'Grath died, and she allowed some 
days to lapse, bat then repeated her question. Father 
Connell now met her with an account of Edmund's great 
occupation in superintending the old man's affairs, and 
with a statement of his newly-acquired riches, according to 
the will made in his favor by his master. Mary was glad 
he was so rich, but sorry that his great business kept him 
away. Days passed over, and she said she should like to 
go out on the roads, and walk here and there. The priest 
himself accompanied her forth, and led her for a walk by 
the adjacent river's brink — a delightful walk, during the 
course of which everything around her was arrayed in 
nature's fully-matured gorgeousness. Thoroughly did she 
enjoy this recreation; but still she came back to Father 
ConnelTs house dispirited, and feeling a great want. 

Some more days passed on, and Father Connell told her 
that Edmund Fennell was to come and dine with him, 
previous to his going a great, great way off— to Dublin, in 
fact — there to engage in new pursuits, which the good man 
tried to explain to her. Mary changed color, but listened 
meekly, and only said — " God spread the good luck, an 9 
the happiness in his road, wherever he goes." 

Edmund did come to dine with Father Connell, and 
Mary was summoned to speak with him in the parlor, in 
Father ConnelTs presence ; but though her heart at first 
bounded to meet his heart, and though herself first 
bounded forward to be encircled in his arms, and though 
Edmund was not wanting in all show of affectionate inter* 
est, still the poor girl began to feel vaguely that there was 
in future to be a distance measured between them, and she 
retired weeping to her kitchen. Dinner came on, and she 
received the impression more strongly, when she observed 
that Edmund and Father Connell dined together, and that 
she and Father ConnelTs servant dined together. 

Edmund was retiring for the evening — the last he was 
to spend for some time in his native city. Marv was again 
called in, that he might bid her farewell SL© ' wed the 
parlor with a humiliated and bone 1 ' .g air — but l^U bit 
of ill temper in it Edmund shooL aer hands, kissed her 
cheek, and spoke still most affectionately to her. In re- 
tarn, she kissed his lips and prayed the blessing of God 
"on his road, wherever he went." — He left the house. 



256 FATHEB CONHELL. 

attended to the outside door by Father Connell. The 
priest returned to Mary, and found her sitting stupefied on 
the floor. 

"When he was a very little boy, my poor child," the 
priest said, "he promised you if ever he should be rich, he 
would share his riches with you ; and now, my poor child, 
see whether he does or not — only see;" and he emptied a 
purse of gold into her lap. 

Mary put her hand under the guineas and let them 
drop, almost one by one, back again into her lap, and at 
last dolefully said — "May the good God reward him for his 
charity ; but Fd rather nave the love from Neddy Fennell 
than all this goold, sir." 

But in some time Mary became contented with her lot ; 
and then, more than contented — happy. Day by day, a 
great and revering love for her protector sprung up in her 
heart, nearly to. the exclusion of the former sentiment. 
Her religious duties, too, engrossed her, and very soon, 
Father Connell called in Mick Dempsey to engage her 
mind in fresh studies ; and her progress in reading and 
writing — in reading, in fact, so as to be able to occupy and 
interest herself — was as surprising as was that which she 
had made in higher pursuits. 

But her witnessing casuallv Edmund Fennell's marriage 
with Helen M'Neary, from her secret position in the little 
hall, proved, as regarded her love for him, a great draw- 
back upon all her acquired discipline in the conduct of her 
young heart. 



CHAPTER XXX. 



Twenty-five, or twenty-six miles to the north-east 'if 
Father Connell's city, and in another county, there stood, 
in the times of which we write, what had been a good 
country mansion, now in ruins. Its living owner, as he 
was also the owner of a very considerable tract of adja- 
cent acres, had never been seen by the dwellers on his 
noble estate. In met he resided in nabob style in another 
country. 



FATHER C0N5ELL. 257 

In his despatches to his agents, his constant cry was, like 
the gnome, for "more, more ;" and in the highly civilized 
land in which he sojourned, desperate, and nnteachable 
savages he called those from whom he drew his ample 
income, never admitting, meanwhile, that the merciless 
exactions inflicted on his wretched tenantry, by his agents, 
to meet the insatiable craving for " more, more," had made 
those deserted people poor beyond endurance, and neces- 
sarily reckless and fierce towards all whom they considered 
as the causers of their oppression. But our history can 
have little to do with this matter, further than that we are 
bound to allude to it, in order to show how it was that the 
once noble mansion was now visited by ruin — the ruin of 
neglect rather than of time. 

A flight of many steps ascended to its hall-door, but the 
balustrade at either hand had tumbled down ; and grass 
grew up through the joints of the steps, which were loose 
under foot. No glass was in any of the windows, and in 
some were fragments of sashes only ; while their shutters, 
which had been closed, never to be re-opened, fifty years 
before, had either partially or totally decayed, and when 
the wind was high, their remnants flapped or creaked dis- 
mally. The once solid hall-door was rotten, and, although 
the iron bolt on the inside still held it in its place, it could 
very easily be opened. The sashes, frames, and shutters 
of the windows on the lower story were altogether gone ; 
and the brood of a surly old sow could occasionally be seen 
scampering in and out through them in full career, and 
at their unbridled pleasure. Most of the aged trees of the 
adjacent park were denuded of their branches; the fish- 
ponds, to the right and left of the house, were a mass of 
aquatic weeds, emitting an unwholesome vapor; the shrub- 
beries were choked up with bramble and briar, their neatly 
sanded walks no longer visible ; everything around you 
had an air of chilly neglect and dilapidation. 

The park was rented by a farmer, whose thatched dwell- 
ing arose in one of its most picturesque spots. Some time 
before the period with which we are concerned, this person 
sent one of his laborers to the house, a distance off, with 
instructions to fix himself in some sheltered nook of the 
ruined dwelling, and act as care-taker for his employer. 
One night only did the man hold his post ; for so dreadful 



258 FATHER CORNELL. 

a night had that proved to him, that, as he said and swore, 
he would not accept the whole year's rent of the estate to 
pass another like it. There had been such rattling of 
chains, and stamping of feet up and down the old stair- 
cases, and such frightful laughter in remote parts of the 
crumbling edifice, and such calling him by his name, and 
altogether such a hellish uproar and revelry as never was 
known in this world before. 

A long, straight, broad avenue, perfectly arched over- 
head by the junction of two rows of very fine old oaks, ran 
from the house to the public road. We should rather say 
that these oaks traced out the course of an avenue that 
had been; for no distinction at present existed between the 
grassy way under foot, and the land at its either side. 
Years before, a massive iron gate had guarded the entrance 
to the avenue ; but half of it was now clean gone, and the 
other half, broken off its hinges, was supported by an 
abutment of loose stones, while a low barrier, of similar 
materials, fenced up the space where the other half had 
stood ; and thus were the grounds at that side protected 
against trespass. 

A crumbling wall swept in a curve at either side of this 
old gateway; and it was with surprise that the farmer who 
rented the park discovered, early one morning — so early 
that it was yet twilight — to one side of it, a hastily con- 
structed and most wretched hut, which certainly had not 
been there the previous night A shapeless and unsightly 
structure it might indeed be called, being neither round, 
nor square, nor oblong — a truly unmathematical rhomboid. 
Its walls, if such an unartificial heaping up of sods, stones, 
and mud, could be so termed, were not more than three 
feet high; a few boughs stretched across these, with furze 
heaped over them, formed its roof ; and some furze still, 
with one or two bundles of straw, nearly covered up the 
mouth of the den., 

On a large stone placed before this suddenly built hut, 
the farmer discovered part of a delft plate, having one half- 

Senny as nearly as possible in the middle of it ; and this 
enoted that charity was expected from the passers-by; 
while on another stone sat an individual whom the farmer 
could not, in his own mind, call either man or boy. 
By his height and his beardless chin he seemed indeed 



FATHER C0NN1LL. 269 

to be a boy; bat then his surly brow, his scowling eye, his 
dogged mouth, the absence of boyish plumpness in his 
cheeks, his long and muscular arms, his broad chest and 
shoulders, together with the shape of his tattered attire, 
appeared on the contrary to characterize him as a man. 

Such huts as this described, wherein the wandering 
mendicant, suddenly seized with fever, or otherwise as- 
sailed by disease so as to hinder him from proceeding on 
his way, stretches himself, until he either gets better or 
dies — may often be met with on an Irish roadside; and 
they are generally erected by the neighboring peasantry to 
guard against the introduction of contagious illness into 
their crowded families. And no one knew this better than 
the honest farmer at present before us. But here was a 
wigwam constructed m one night — by whom? No hands 
in the neighborhood had, to his knowledge, been employed 
in the work, and indeed none could have been without his 
becoming acquainted with the fact Was the strange look- 
ing guardian of the den its sole architect and builder? 
Our friend grew very uncomfortable as he took a second 
glance at him and it In the whole expression of the non- 
descript creature, seated on the second large stone, there 
was something indeed unnatural and impish ; and, in the 
grey dimness of the early and lonesome morning, the rude, 
misshapen hut seemed only like the apparition of one which 
he might have called up, as he would a mushroom, almost 
in an instant, from the earth, but which, supposing it of 
earthly material — his hands — were they human hands- 
could never have begun and finished in the course of a sin- 
gle night 

The farmer took heart, however, to address his new ac- 
quaintance, who, in most morose tones, gave him to un- 
derstand that he was certainly the sole workman engaged 
in the building of the rude hospital ; and, moreover, that 
his old grandfather now lav within it in a raging fever, as 
could plainly be seen and known by any one who would 
come dose and look in. 

The inquirer, gaining more courage, did approach near- 
er, and heard moans and incoherent ravings ; and when 
afterwards talking over the matter with his neighbors, he 
added, that through the small aperture of the kennel not 
blocked up by furze and straw, the wildest eyes and the 



260 FATHER CORNELL. 

most frightful face he had ever seen had onee or twice 
glared up and been turned towards him. 

Sat his neighbors, and indeed himself afterwards, attrib- 
uted to the influence of fever the expression of those eyes 
and of that face ; and general compassion for the afflicted 
and aged man was felt throughout the neighborhood, 
under the influence of Which he was supplied with every 
aid and nourishment that rustic sympathy and skill could 
afford or prescribe. 

Neither was his unamiable nurse neglected, being fur- 
nished with such humble fare as the peasantry could be- 
stow. But as to nightly lodging it was generally believed 
and feared, that boy or man, whichever he might be, he 
used to pass his nights quite independently in some corner 
of the ruined mansion, in which the farmers's stout steward 
had refused to take up his quarters. 

Although the people of the vicinity thus exercised their 
charity towards the occupant of the uncouth hut and his 
grandson, there arose amongst them, however, after a 
while, whispers by no means favorable either to the one or 
to the other, and of a nature that inspired a vague dread of 
both. For it became noticed that the self-called grandson 
was by no means diligent in his attendance on his patient; 
that for the greater portion of a day he was not to be seen 
near him; nay, that for three or four days together he had 
been away, no one knew where. The contrast between 
his youthful appearance and the expressions of his feat- 
ures; his manners and habits, so little in accordance with 
boyhood, or even with humanity; his thanklessness for 
favors, and his piggish answers to all who spoke to him, 
next told against the mysterious new-comer. He had, 
besides, severely and viciously hurt two children, while at 
their play in the fields ; and as a climax to his abominable 
practices, a little anecdote must be related. 

A favorite brood hen, belonging to one of the adjacent 
cottagers, became missing. When looked after, it was 
found suspended by the neck from the bough of a tree, 
quite dead — very well hung, in fact — and the dark-browed 
boy-man, with his arms folded, was, at the same time, ob- 
served seriously contemplating it. When questioned on 
the subject, he deigned to assume a devilish grin, while he 
answered : — 



FATHER C0NNBLL. 261 

M I wanted to see the way a fellow would die whin he'd 
be hanged on the gallows." 

" Lof d save us an' keep us !" said the woman, whose pet 
hen had suffered under the young philosopher's experi- 
ment ; " <ua' why did you want to know that ?" 

" Fur a rason I have ; tell me this — if I knocked your 
brains out wid this stone, wouldn't I be hanged ?" 

The woman pressed her thumb hard against her fore- 
nead, repeatedly making the sigh of the cross as she re- 
treated, without asking another question. 

Then, as to the sick person whom he called grandfather. 
This individual in a little time began occasionally to be 
seen near the mouth of his wigwam on all-fours, as if he 
could not better support himself, or was not yet sufficiently 
recovered to stand upright. But there was some doubt 
about this fact of his continued incapacity for locomotion. . 
One person positively asserted, that while engaged in the 
middle of the night watching for a dog that had committed 
depredations on the sheep in the neighboring park, he had 
seen pass very near him, in his ambush, a figure with long 
grey hair floating about its shoulders, hobbling away in the 
direction of the ruined house, but hobbling with great ra- 
pidity, however ; and although the night was very still, no 
sound came from the footfall of the figure. The startled 
watchman shouted out ; the figure turned its head, and 
now he could almost swear that he beheld, in the clear 
moonshine, the fearful eyes, which that very day had glared 
upwards at him, from the interior of the sick man's hospi- 
tal But a noise, as if from the dog for which he was on 
the watch, here made him look in another direction, and 
when he again would have studied the questionable appar- 
ition, no one appeared in view. 

The man hastily gave up his watching-post, and crossing 
the park, made his way down the avenue to the hut outside 
its ruined gate. At a glance he became assured that its 
disagreeable guardian was not visible ; but this was noth- 
ing to the purpose. He drew close to the curious struc- 
ture ; heard the usual moans and lamentations issue from 
it ; peered closely into it, and saw the sick man himself 
lying stretched on his straw, quite alone and seemingly 
helpless. He called out, and again the frightful eyes met hi* 
He hurried homewards, stricken to the heart with terror. 



262 FATHER C0N9ELL. 

But after all, {here was no witchcraft or goblinism in the 
matter. He had really and truly seen Robin Costigan 
shuffling rapidly towards the old mansion, and he had also 
really seen Robin Costigan lying on his back in his den out- 
side the avenue gate. 

And as soon as Robin judged himself free from furthei 
observation, shrewdly concluding that no more questions 
would that night be asked of nim, he protruded at first 
part of his body from the opening of his lair, and then 
crept out inch by inch on his hands and knees. Thus he 
remained for some time, turning his head from side to side. 
All was safe, he at length concluded. He then crawled to 
the low crumbling wall that swept round from the gateway, 
and scrambling over it like an old ferret, and squatting 
down at its inside, again looked and listened all round 
him. Still nothing was to be apprehended. At a few steps 
distant, a tangled and forsaken shrubbery, which, however, 
to any one who could or would thread it, formed a short 
cut to the point where he had encountered the dog-watcher, 
now invited his further progress. Darting into this, he 
made way through it, with a skill that showed he was no 
stranger to its difficulties. In a few minutes it delivered 
him almost into contact with the ruined house. 

Turning to the rear of the building, he got into it through 
the almost open space of one of the kitchen range of win- 
dows, and proceeded along an arched stone passage. It 
was pitch dark, but he knew his way and did not hesitate 
for an instant. He entered the cellarage of the house, 
traversed it, and arrived at another passage, which appar- 
ently terminated all the under regions of the edifice. But 
this did not satisfy Robin Costigan. Standing over a cer- 
tain spot, he struck his stick in a measured kind of way 
against the floor ; paused, repeated the same signal ; and 
presently, close by where he stood, a square flag seemed 
gradually to raise itself up — the circumstance becoming 
observable from a dim red light which broke through the 
orifice it had concealed. The old be^garman then de- 
scended a few stone steps, and continued through an 
apartment — dripping overhead with damp — to a more dis- 
tant vault. Here two smithy-looking men were busy at a 
small furnace, or occasionally near to it. Costigan joined 
them, and immediately afterwards the hen's hangman added 



FATHER CONNELL. 263 

himself to the party — the same individual who had raised 
the trap-door to admit Robin into the secret manufactory. 
It may here be noticed that the contrivance of this trap- 
door was not as old as the building of the mansion ; and 
that it had been devised and constructed by Robin and his 
friends, in order to give any chance passenger on a level 
with it above, the idea that there, indeed, terminated the 
under vaults of the house. 

" Well, ould Darby the divil," said one of the men — the 
scoundrel was known to his present associates only as 
Darby Cooney — "well, ould Darby the divil, you're bravely 
to-night ; the faver isn't goin' through you very intiruly." 

" Will ye ever be finished with this job," growled Darby, 
by way of answer. 

" This is the last cast," replied another. 

" We're finishin' off the last cast ; do you think these 'ull 
stand the jingle, Darby ? Here, you black-muzzled gal- 
lows' bird, show these to him." 

Darby's nurse brought for inspection to his patient, a 
large pewter dish full of five-penny and ten-penny pieces 
and half-crowns. Darby scrutinized them very closely. 

" They'll do," was his laconic comment. 

" If they wasn't the right sort we'd hear of it," remarked 
the first man who had spoken. 

" I don't like botchery, Paul Pinnigan, nor I don't like 
prate. Fire to you, sowl an' body, you curmudgeon 1 Will 
you take care ov yourself will you r* 

The first part of this discourse was a reply to Paul Pin- 
nigan's familiarity, the second, accompanied with a blow of 
his cudgel, was addressed to his tender young nurse, who 
had stumbled, and nearly upset the dish of base coin which 
he was bearing back to the artists. 

" You're a little cross to-night, Darby the divil," said the 
other man ; and he indeed was an artist in his way, and 
presumed on his cleverness. 

" Let me hear none of your gab neither, Molocth,"* re- 
buked Darby, growlingly; "will you finish the cast to- 
night, that's the question ?" 

" Out an' out, by the hokey poker," replied Molocth. 

" Plaso God, an' we will, assented Finnigan, " 'twould 
be the divil's own quare play to be here any longer." 

•ThewiokML 

12 



264 FATHER COHHSLL. 

" Well cat to Connaught agen," was the snggestion of 
the grandson of the sick man of the hut. 

u An' 'tis high time for ye to be done," resumed Darby, 
M a fellow might as well be in one of their blackest cells as 
in that cursed pig-sty. My ould bones is knotted together 
lyin' in id." 

" Bee this holy filo," said Molocth, raising one of the im- 
plements of his art, " 'twas a bright thought in you, Darby 
the divil, my darlin'." 

"I was afeard that young jade of an informer 'ud bring 
the spies on us — an' if they came this way I could give ye 
warning— that's the whole of id ; yon know I kep ye together 
these many years, while others war thrapped like rats," was 
Darby's reply. 

" There isn't a betther watch-dog, nor a betther head- 

Siece, wid the life in his carcase, this night*'' complimented 
[olocth. 

"Hogh! You're sure you'll be all ready to start before 
day-dawn ? That's the talk ;" continued Darby, authori- 
tatively. 

" 'Tis a'most day already," he was answered. 

" 111 be on the thramp afore ye — ye know where we are 
bound for .at present, and where we're to meet together 
agen?" 

" To a place twenty-five good miles from this, by the 
hokey pokey." 

" 'Tis a wondher that the whiahkey let ye remember id. 
Ye must be there as the dark comes on to-morrow night 
week. Maybe I'd want your help. Maybe the Babby an 9 
myself could manage the job." 

" Bee this holy saw," said Molocth, ceasing the motion 
of a very small one, with which he was finishing the edges 
of some half-crown pieces — and as he spoke, he looked fully 
from beneath his bent brows into the malignant, the hellish 
eyes of the old beggarman — " Bee this holy saw, Darby the 
divil, I'd a'most lay down my own life to stop that business 
— faugh ! Twill be a sorrowful job to spill the blood o' 
the little crature." 

" What's that you say ?" asked Darby, in a slow, inwaid 
voice. 

" I done bad jobs in my lifetime, bud I don't like this 
one. She was so comely, when she was very young an' 



FATHER CONNELL. 265 

small, that 'twas Eke the sunshine to my eyes to look oa 
her ; an' she wouldn't harm the wing ov a fly, herself— 
poor, poor thing I" 

Dan>y Cooney rose up from a large stone, on which he 
had been seated : half limping, half running, he passed 
Molocth, and bending his head forward, glanced searchr 
ingly into the face of the other man, Finnigan. In evident 




Darby Cooney very slowly altered his position ; stepping 
a few paces back, he stood firmly on his outspread legs, ana 
propped himself with both hands upon his stick. The two 
men quailed before his regards. The Babby — we give him 
his new appellation— came close to his side, and folding his 
arms hard, contemplated his old preceptor, with the same 
steady and studious look he had worn, when watching the 
death-throes of the gibbeted hen. A pin could be heard to 
fall, where just before there had been a din of rasping, and 
hammering, and sawing. 

" Do ye remimber the oath that ye took, and that I took, 
and that she took, as well as the rest ov us? Answer 
me to that question. Do ye remimber it ? Paul Finnigan, 
do you remimber it? Dinnis Keegan, do you remimber 
it?" Each of the men answered his question affirma- 
tively. 

"An' the oath was, that death, by the hands ov the rest 
ov us, was to fall upon any thraitor or informer among 
us, wasn't that the oath — wasn't it ? Answer to me again— 
wasn't it?" 



This question also was assented to. 
"An' isn't she a 



thraitor, an' an informer — isn't she? 
Isn't she?" 

"If she was a thraitor," answered Molocth, alias Dinnia 
Eeegan, speaking, however, in a wavering tone; "if she 
was a thraitor, the spies would be on us by this time ; I 
don't think she is a thraitor, poor young crature." 

" Bee the black divil, bud she is, Dinnis Keegan. Didn't 
she sell my life — ay, my own life ? Didn't she put the cord 
upon me? Didn't she bid him to hould me fast, an' to 
keep me fast? Ay, ay — she did ; and since I cum here, 
wasn't she a thraitor to every one ov ye? While I was in 



26ft FATHBE CONVELL. 

that place abroad, didn't I send the Babby to watch her? 
Tell him what yon found out, Babby." 

"I hard her tellin' th' onld woman everything she knew ; 
I was listenin' to her wid my ears, an' I was lookin' at her 
wid my eyes," imperturfoably answered the Babby. 

"Isn't she a thraitor thin? Isn't she, isn't she?" de- 
manded Darby Cooney, in a grim and deadly triumph ; 
"and though for the last nine months or more, she was 
left to herself, an' had her own way, mustn't she be talked 
to at last— mustn't she?" 

The imperfect jury were obliged to admit the crime 
committed against their fraternity. "Poor young sowl!" 
sighed Molocth, as he gave in his unwilling verdict, "poor 
young sowl 1 'tis all over wid her." 

"To-morrow evening week then, you promise to meet 
me at the close of the day ; do ye promise? do ye?" 

The men gave the promise required; Molocth stipu- 
lating, however, " if you don't want us very much intirely, 
we'd like not to put our hands to the work." 

"I tould ye before," replied Darby Cooney, "that if the 
Babby an' myself can do id, we won't ax your help ; bud 
be near us, at yer peril — ay, at yer periL xe know I have 
other hands to work fur me ; an' take care how ye put me 
to id, or ye'll rue the day. Meet me afther the nightfall, 
to-morrow evenin' week— ye know where — an' I say agen, 
at yer periL" 

Darby Cooney's features quivered spasmodically, and 
even his head had a momentary shaking fit, as he held up 
his stick to eke out his threats. Without another word, 
he then hastily limped out of the workshop, silently and 
gravely attended by the Babby. 

The next morning, the people of the neighborhood 
found the materials of the temporary hospital, near the 
gateway of the avenue, scattered about in every direo- 



FATHER CONNELL. 967 



CHAPTER XXXL 

The bridal party proceeded homewards from Father Gon- 
dii's house; and a strange bridal party it was. Scarcely 
a word was interchanged between the three persons of 
whom it was composed. And their silence was not of that 
nature which is the result of an infelt happiness and con- 
tent, too great for expression by words ; it was the silence 
of apprehension for the present, and fear for the future ; 
misgivings of having done wrong, and a dread of over- 
taking punishment 

Edmund shrunk from contemplating to what he had ex 
posed Helen, should her father discover their clandestine 
marriage. He trembled, too, at the bare thought of what 
such a discovery must entail on his revered and beloved 
friend, Father Connell; and his conscience now continu- 
ally asked him — "have I not been too precipitate, and 
too selfish, in hurrying Helen into this irrevocable step ? 
Should I not have indeed taken chance for what the prob- 
able changes, of two or three days, might bring about?" 

He felt his young bride shudder, as she leaned upon his 
arm. Cheeringly ne tried to speak to her, but in vain. 
The sentences came cold from his lips. She shivered again. 
Was she so cold? he asked. No, no, she was not at all 
cold — it was a fine night enough, Helen answered. But 
still the wretched shuddering recurred. "My father's 
curse 1" was the internal thought which caused it "I 
know he will drive me from his door — that will not be 
much— but ohl he will curse me too ! My dear — and after 
all, my dearly loved and loving father! And do I not de- 
serve it, even for my unmaidenly and undignified conduct, 
do I not deserve it?" 

Helen did not indeed deserve quite so much; she soon 
had her punishment, however. 

The only person of the party who had no fear for the 
future, was Miss Bessy Lanigan. True it was, she felt in 
common with Edmund and Helen, a great terror of Gaby 
M'Neary; of his public exposure of her amongst her 
numerous circle of little genteel friends ; of his furious 
anger; of his horrid abuse; almost of his stick. But then, 



268 FATHER COlf NELL. 

Mr. Q. 0. nnexpounded ! Was there not consolation in 
the very utterance of his name? They arrived at Miss 
Lanigan's hall-door. Lounging against one of its jambs, 
his hands in his cuffs, and turning up one eye and one side 
of his face to the young moon, stood Tom Naddy. On the 
arrival of the party, he saluted each in turn, and then, 
without a word, knocked at the door for them. 

" What brings you here ?" asked Edmund. 

'* You have been sent here by my father to summon me 
home?" demanded Helen, much agitated. 

"That's id, sure enough, Miss, answered Tom Naddy 
composedly, " an' this isn't the first time to-night he sent 
me either ; no, nor the second time : he's like a mad bull 
intirely, rampagin' about the house, an' cursin', an' swear- 
in', that whin he lays hoult on Miss Lanigan — " 

" I vow and protest," interrupted that lady. 

" My God !" cried Helen. " Conduct me home at once, 
Miss ianigan — or no, upstairs if you please, for an instant. 
Edmund," she continued, when they had all arrived in the 
miniature drawing-room — " Edmund, good-night — and 
farewell too— and do not start or gainsay me in what I am 
going to advise, for both our sakes. I must appear at once 
before my father, so that good-night is best said at once — 
and the word that is made use of, even for a longer part- 
ing, must also be said at once ; we part, indeed, here — on 
this very spot, to await, wide asunder, better and happier 
days, for our re-meeting. You will not, I know, be selfish 
enough to tempt an immediate exposure of all that has 
happened this evening, by accompanying us, or following 
us to my father's — I know you will not I Nor will you, by 
your appearance in this town, to-morrow, run the same 
risk — so, good-night, dear Edmund ! — and not a word, I 
pray of you again, for the present ; I will write to yon, and 
you will write to me — and in perfect confidence we will 
consult each other on the best thing to be done, for the 
terrible future ; dear Edmund, I implore you, if you love 
me, to comply with my wishes in another respect Return 
this moment to your old priest's house — tell him what I 
recommend you to do, and see if he will not agree with me 
— and again and again, good-night, dear Edmund I" 

He stood stunned before her by his great affliction ; see- 
ing this, she fell on his neck, and added, in a trembling 



FATHER CONNELL. 269 

voice, and with sndden tears — " Dearest Edmund, farewell 
—dearest, dearest Edmund ! My husband — farewell !" 

One most tender, and almost despairing embrace, the 
young pair interchanged; the next moment, Helen had 
nearly dragged Miss Bessy Lanigan down her own stairs, 
and out of her own house. Edmund sat alone for some 
time. At length, he started up, and walked rapidly in the 
direction of Father ConnelTs dwelling. 

Arrived on the steps before Gaby M'Neary's hall-door, 
the ladies, when the door was opened, bid each other good- 
bye; in feet, Miss Bessy Lanigan would not, for the 
present, face Gaby M'Neary, if she got a thousand pounds 
for it, she said; and only leaving her best regards and 
compliments for him, hurried home, mincing her steps, and 
pattering along the streets, as rapidly as a little rheumatic 
stiffness in her joints enabled her to do. 

Helen M'Neary flew into the parlor, where she knew she 
should find her father, almost wild with agitation and 
terror. Without allowing him time to utter a word, she 
flung herself on her knees, and clasping her hands, cried — 

"Dear father, do not be angry with me; and forgive me 1 
neither Miss Lanigan nor I noticed how the evening wore 
away — but I know I have been out of the house too long- 
forgive me, oh, forgive me 1 Never again will I give you 
cause to be displeased with me, in thought, word, or deed! 
And am I to go to my own room again, this moment? I 
will do so willingly, father, oh, most willingly 1" 

Gaby M'Neary was startled at this unexplicable energy 
and passion ; it was quite disproportioned to the occasion. 
He looked at her steadily. She was not weeping ; but her 
beautiful face was ghastly, almost haggard ; her eyes were 
distended, and her shining gold hair was wildly dishevelled. 
Had she indeed taken such a dislike towards her suitor, 
Mr. Stanton, that this effect was produced by it? He 
brought to mind, too, that upon leaving home that evening 
her step had been heavy, her hands and limbs trembling, 
her farewells with him hurried and incoherent Gaby 
M'Neary was now more than startled ; he was frightened 
and alarmed for his child. Again he looked studiously at 
her. Her dry, glittering eyes, as she still knelt, glanced 
every other moment over her shoulder, towards the open 
door of the parlor. 



270 FATHER CONNELL. 

" Am I to return to my own room?" she continued, "oh, 
yes, sir — do, do, let me go!" 

"What's all this, Helen?" said Gaby, holding out his 
hand to her — " get up, child — get up out of that, you young 
jade. Sit on that chair, near me now — there. Blur-an- 
ages! what's all this about ? Tell me at once, you baggage 
— good child, I mean— don't go on frightening the life and 
the liver out of me. Did you see a ghost, or Dicky Stan- 
ton ? — By Gog alive, there's little difference between one 
and the other ; bring your chair closer to me ; closer, 
child, come closer to me." 

She obeyed her father's command, but did not utter a 
word, only shivered through every limb. Gaby felt that 
the hand he held was like death's, clammy cold. He put 
his huge, fat arm round her little delicate neck ; laid her 
head on his shoulder, and fondled her cheek with his hand, 
or twisted her golden curls round his finger, and resumed, 
in a voice exceedingly gentle for him — 

" Helen, you damned Utile hussey, don't you know you're 
the pet of the house, and the mouse of the cupboard— eh ? 
Don t you know that, Helen ?" 

This show of affection, uncouth as it was, she was wholly 
unprepared for, and it went through her heart. She re- 
mained still unable to speak, but turning her head on his 
shoulder, until her eyes were hidden in it, she wept and 
sobbed most miserably. 

" Damn the blood of it, girl, don't cry that way, or you'll 
make as great a fool of me as yourself ; there, there now, 
girl, give over now, I tell vou:" he gave her a father's kiss. 

"Oh, dear, dear father, Helen could have said, "do not 
curse me when you know all ;" but she only muttered these 
words within herself, twining at the same time her arms 
around him. 

" Blug-a-bouns! girl, you'll put my shoulder out of joint, 
and I told you you'd make a fool of me," and he shook his 
head indignantly, but he also shook with the motion two 
large tears from his eyes, which fell into Helen's bosom; 
" be damned to it 1 but I never thought this would happen 
to me; why, Gog-alive, I'll turn you out of the house, if 
ever you make a fool of me in this away again, you young 
baggage." 

" Oh, no, no, no, you will not — I am sure you will not — I 



FATHER CONNELL. 271 

ani sure yon never, never will do that! Promise me, dear 
father, that yon never, never will do that !" she united her 
hands, and looked with brimming eyes folly into his. 

u Well, I won't, poor girl, I wont" 

" Never, never, sir !" 

" Well, never, never, then, and be damned to it" 

" God bless you, dear father, God bless you." 

" But, blug-a-bouns ! I dont see what's the matter with 
yon yet, at all, at all," Gaby became grave and contem- 
plative; "oh, ay, I forgot," again he ruminated; "tell me, 
Helen, hasn't that chip-in-porridge, that Dick Stanton a 
letter of yours, in answer to one of his, in which you accept 
him as your lover and future husband?" 

"No, indeed, sir, he has not On the contrary, sir, he 
has only a foolish note of mine to him, in ridicule of a long, 
strange letter which he wrote to me; but instead of that 
note encouraging him, it is a decided refusal of him." 

" Blood-an'-thunder-an'-ages! let me see his letter." 

Helen quickly ran up stairs for it, returned in an instant, 
and placed it in her father's hands; he read it over rapidly. 

" Oh, Gog's-blug-a-bouns ! The sneaking mutton-headed 
ass ! and does he call this riddle-me-ree a love letter 1 If I 
don't twist his long nose for him, the divil may box punch. 
Oh! ha! Dick Stanton, you were putting your finger in 
my ©y©> were you ? Oh! tare-an-ages !" And Gaby M*Neary 
snatched up his last solitary glass of wine, emptied it in a 
jerk, and stamped down the empty glass on the table, 
thcieby breaking off its shank. " Oh ! of all the chaps in 
Christendom, that harry-long-legs of a fellow, that's neither 
fish nor flesh, nor good red herring — to try to humbug me, 
in my house ! Oh !" and Gaby flung the broken glass into 
the nre place — " Hah! there's his rap at the hall-door — but • 
don't be afraid, Helen — hold up your chin, my girl, and 
look merry — blur-an-ages! 'twas no wonder for you to get 
the jaundice, which I see you have — at the notion of such 
a starved spider creeping after you ! Get out of the room 
now for a moment— first give me another kiss, and don't 
cry any more, I tell you — run away now — oh, blood-an- 
fury! Dicky Stanton, to think he could humbug me to 
my face! off with you at once, you little baggage, and leave 
this Jockey to me." 

As Helen left the room, Gaby M ( Neary flourished his 



272 FATHER CONNELL. 

arm over his head. The hall-door having been opened, 
Mr. Stanton's boots creaked across the hall, and entered 
the parlor. Mr. Stanton had come to supper, on a most 
express invitation. 

" Well, sir! do you want me ?° began Gaby M*Neary. 

" Sir — the-a — the-a — " and Mr. Stanton stood and stam- 
mered, the picture of surprise. 

"The-a — the devil, sir!" continued Gaby, "so my gen- 
tleman, you came into my house to play your asses' thricks 
m me, did you ?" 

"Mr. M*Neary — sir— -the-a — I— the-a — really — don't un- 
derstand you, sir." 

'•If you don't then, HI soon make you. You told me 

Chad a letter from Helen, accepting you for her hus- 
dr 

"And so I have, sir — the-a — * 

"Let me see it this moment!" 

" I will, sir; I have it here, sir, lying next to my heart — 
in the-a — the-a — " 

" Well, puu it out of the — the-a, and hand it here to me." 

From a pocket on the inside of his waistcoat, made 
expressly tor the treasure by his own hands, Q. O. unex- 
pounded drew forth the answer to his letter, from G. O. 
unexponndecL Gaby M<Neary snatched it from him, and 
read it twice over. 

"And what the devil do you call this hodge-podge ? Is 
this the letter, accepting you as a husband, that you told 
me you got from Helen ?" 

" Yes, sir — tne-a — the-a — that is the very letter." 

" Phu ! phu 1 ' — this expression, or rather sound, of inef- 
fable contempt cannot, we fear, be at all translated ; " phu I 
phu ! get out, you stupid brute ! Oh, Gog-alive 1 what a 
purty fellow to come coorting into any man's house I And 

Jou had the damn'd assurance to tell me that you had a 
>tter from my daughter, accepting your proposals V* 
" And sir, isn't that the-a — 

"No, it isn't I No, it isn't, you poor, creeping, crawling 
cumshuck ! No— but it is a note, refusing you to your teeth, 
and laughing at you to your face, you poor stuttering 
animal. Get oat of my sight, this moment, and let me 
never hear your sugar-a-candy boots screeching within 
my doors again l" 



FATHER CONNBLL. 273 

"Mr.M«Neary— " 

"Mr. Torn the divil! — go home, I tell yon!" and Gaby 
bounced up and seized his stick ; Mr. Stanton would have 
expostulated, but as his late friend strode towards him he 
prudently retreated, shutting the parlor door between him- 
self and his host, and holding its handle on the outside. 
Gaby, still threatening and exclaiming, reseated himself by* 
the fire. In a few seconds the door slowly opened again, 
and Mr. Stanton half entered in. 

" Mr. M'Neary — " he began, when whirl and smack went 
Gaby's stick against his shins : the door was then quickly 
reclosed, and Mr. Stanton's boots were heard as quickly 
creaking a retreat out of the house. 

Gaby rang the belL Tom Naddy answered it ; and, in- 
deed, this was no great trouble, as he had not been far out 
of the way. 

" Tell Miss M*Neary to come here, you brat" 

Tom shouldered off. Helen soon appeared. 

" You needn't be much afraid of that creeping bug-a-bow 
any longer, Helen ; I don't think hell show his nose here 
for some time to come. But what the divil is this over 
again? Why you look as if you wanted to get him back! 
What's the matter with you now, girl?" 

"My dear, dear father, I am thankful to you beyond 
what I can say." 

" Why, then, a damned queer way you have of showing 
it Why don't you look glad, if you are glad ?" 

"My dear good father, don't be angry with me." 

" Blood- an-fury-an ages, girl ! I thought you'd be ready 
to dance cover-the-buckle for joy ; havn't you even thanks 
to offer me?" 

"Indeed I am most thankful, sir — " 

" And if you are most thankful, why do you look as if 
you were going to be hanged ? Do you want to drive me 
mad again? Damned well for Stanton to get rid of you, 
I believe — oh, may the man that tries to do good to a pet- 
ticoat, whoever may wear it, or whatever she may be to 
him — may that fellow be cursed by act of Parliament, I 
■ay!" 

Gaby M'Neary was stumping off to bed ; Helen called 
out after him to return, and say God bless her, before they 
separated for the night. Gruffly enough, he acceded to 



274 FATHER CONNELL. 

her request, and then left her alone. She looked round 
the cheerless parlor, clasped her hands, and whispered 
shudderingly to herself — " Oh, I am punished already— 
oh, had I but waited one day ! And my father has yet to 
know all I" 

Trying to escape from her own thoughts, she also hur- 
ried to her bed-chamber. And thus ended Helen's bridal 
night 



CHAPTER XXXIL 



When Nelly Carty first announced to the beggar-girl, 
under her own roof, among the shower of houses, that die 
was her mother, Mary felt delighted at the disclosure. 
The novelty of finding herself claimed by any human creat- 
ure, was grateful to her previous sense of utter loneliness 
in the world. The woman's zeal and energy, and indeed 
success, in saving her from the effects of Darby Cooney's 
visit, naturally aroused her gratitude also. But Nelly 
Carty, by telling her that she had yet to make sure of the 
feet of her parentage, caused to arise in Mary's mind a 
doubt, which helped to chill the further growth of these 
feelings. She afterwards instructed her to conceal, for the 
present, the whole matter from Father Connell, and the 
doubt grew stronger. 

Mary went to live with Father Connell ; and for some 
time hearing or seeing nothing of Nelly Carty, and grad- 
ually becoming inspired with new affections, to say nothing 
of her dwelling constantly on an old and an overmastering 
one, almost allowed the circumstance to pass out of her 
thoughts. Time still went by, and she grew indifferent to 
it ; and by degrees, as the improvement of her mental and 
moral habits progressed, Mary nearly wished that she might 
never hear anything more about it In met, she now felt 
a repugnance to being proved to be the child of the unfor- 
tunate Nelly Carty. She had had opportunity afforded her, 
of knowing what good people were, and of being loved and 
protected by good people, and her misgivings and her 



FATHER CONNELL. 275 

recollections told her, that the potato-beggar was not one 
of the good. 

In about three months, as Mary knelt on an evening, 
with crowds of other persons, in the dusk of the little 
chapel, preparing to approach the confessional, she felt 
her cloak plucked gently by some one who knelt close be* 
hind her, and was turning her head, when in a very cau- 
tions whisper, almost at her ear, she was thus addressed :— 
' " Don't stir, or say a word, ma-colleen-beg, but only listen 
well to the words you'll hear. I am Nelly Oarty, your mis- 
fortunate mother ; an' I tould you I'd make you an' all the 
world sure that you were my child ; an' ever since you set 
eyes on me last, sure I was out of this town, far away, 
roamin' here an' there, to thry an' come across the man, 
that is the only crature on the face ov the earth can do it ; 
but I couldn't larn tale or tidin's ov him ; he's at none of 
his ould quarthers, widin thirty miles ov us, any how ; bud 
he's off, off, a great way intirely, this time, fur a rason he 
has, I'm thinkin'. Well, avowrneen, don't be afeard but that 
111 make him out for you, sooner or later ; an' until I do, 
111 never come an' disturb your pace an' quiet in the 
priest's house. An' avoch f unless it was to see you as mv 
child, that I'd come,, to the ould priest's dour, little busi- 
ness I'd have there. I'm not a good woman, my cuishla, 
an' th'ould man wouldn't let me next or nigh you ; an' I'm 
kneelin' here to-night, not fur the confession, or fur the 
prayers — the Lord look down on me an' help me! — bud 
only that I may have this talk wid you, unknownst to him, 
and to everybody. Ah, now the Heavens be wid you, ma- 
colleen-beg ; I'll soon be on the thramp agen, after that 
man, an if mortial wit can do id, Til make you sure, sure, 
sure." 

Mary now heard Nelly Oarty arise from her knees behind 
her, and walk, in her heavy, hob-nailed brogues, out of the 
chapeL 

This incident once more disturbed, for a time, the quiet 
of the beggar-girl's lot ; she feared every day the return 
of Nelly Carty, with the full proofs she seemed so confi- 
dently to promise. But time still passed away; and the 
potato-beggar not appearing, and Mary being now more 
and more occupied, and more and more beloved by hor 
new friends, again suffered the matter very seldom to oc- 



276 FATHER CONNELL. 

cupy her mind. It was not till the very day of her first 
communion, that she caught another glance of her self- 
called mother. Mary was just arising from her knees, 
before the railings of the altar, when the poor woman 
appeared, squatted, Turk-wise, among the crowd, straight 
before her, her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes fixed 
on her supposed child, and streaming tears, and her lips 
wide apart--agape in fact, with the great admiration and 
interest which will give to the human mouth that ex- 
pression. 

"God bless you, cuishla-machree" hoarsely whispered 
Nelly Garty, as Mary made her way through the crowd, to 
pray prayers of thanksgiving in a secluded corner. 

" Amen — an' the same to you, good woman," answered 
Mary, raising her own moist eyes upward. 

The next day, and the next, and the next, Mary again 
experienced disquietude, anticipating Nelly Garty's appear- 
ance at Father GonnelTs door. But she need not have 
been so troubled. 

A second time the potato-beggar had indeed returned to 
her town, after a vain search for Robin Gostigan. True, 
she had succeeded in ascertaining that he, and his gang, 
had recently been hovering about the old mansion, twenty- 
five miles off ; but she had also made sure, that none of 
them were at present in its neighborhood, nay, in itself — not 
even excepting its most secret vaults. And whither Robin 
Costigan had slipped away, she had no clue to conjecture. 
Upon the chance that he might be found in Joan Flaherty's 
hovel, she had come back to the shower of houses, though 
not to her own old tenement. She was still at fault. 

But an occurrence, totally unconnected with him, now 
absorbed her whole mind and soul. She heard of Edmund 
Fennell's re-appearance, from Dublin, in his native city. 
Her heart misgave her as to the cause of this event She 
learned that he endeavored to remain in secret, as much as 
possible. She watched him closely ; she dogged him, and 
the rest of the bridal party, to Father ConneU's door; 
through all their disguise, recognised who his companions 
were — and upon this discovery, though the woman had no 
reason to suspect the private marriage, arose a farther 
ordeal of trial and punishment for Helen M'Neary. 

Gaby M'Neary had, for a good portion of the summer, 



FATHER C0K1TCLL. 277 

resided with his daughter, in a handsome cottage, about 
two miles from the town. There was little of architectural 
beauty or stateliness in the edifice, but it was respectable, 
and very comfortable ; and though not surrounded by aris- 
tocratic parks or pleasure-grounds, still it had its accom- 
paniments of garden, and orchard, and shrubberies, and 
groves, and hedge-row lanes; with its handson.6 lawn, 
sweeping before it On particular business, he had been 
obliged to return to the town, during the days we have last 
met him there ; but on the very morning after Helen's 
clandestine marriage, finding his business concluded, he 
returned to what ought to have been his happy country 
home. 

Helen was glad of the change; glad of anything that 
could serve to divert her mind from serious thin k ing, of 
which, for the present at least, she was incapable. Arrived 
at the little villa, she wandered about all day long, when- 
ever she could escape from her father, walking fast in the 
open air, and scarcely pausing a moment to rest herself or 
look around her. After dinner she was again out in the 
fields, or along the green lanes, and evening — almost night 
indeed — stole upon her, ere she thought of returning to her 
father's root 

It was not a bright night, though there was a moon ; for 
large masses of clouds, with woolly, silvered edges, sailed 
in quick succession across the beautiful planet, scarcely 
ever allowing her to give more than a flash of her magic 
light at a time, while only scraps df the deep blue sky were 
visible between their interstices. It blew a breezy blast 
too, and corn-fields were undulating and rustling all around 
her, and the landrail was creaking, loudly and incessantly 
in the late meadow ; and the trees were waving to and fro, 
in the breeze, not violently but gracefully ; and watch-dogs 
began to bark at every side, and at different distances ; 
while from afar the broken rush of the river, making way 
in that direction over an uneven bed, would have fallen 
pleasantly upon any ear but hers. 

She was hurrying homeward, through one of the bo- 
sheens, or green lanes just alluded to, when a figure broke 
through the deep shadow, in which one of its sides was 
wrapped, and stood on the path a few paces before her. 

Helen uttered a little low scream, turned and retreated. 



278 FATHER CONNELL. 

bat the figure advanced quickly upon her, caught her by 
her dress, and detained her. She now faced round cour- 
ageously, and confronted a tattered, middle-aged woman, 
whose black eyes, flashing in a momentary gleam of the 
moonlight, fixed upon hers and expressed mud) vigor and 
daring. 

" You needn't be in the laste afeard ov me, Miss," the 
woman said, " I come here to meet you, fur your good, an' 
not for evil to you ; 'twas too free ov me to lay hold on 
you, I know — by far too free fur the likes ov me ; bud I 
nave words to say that you ought to harken to ; an' if you'll 
stand an' spake to me til take my hand from your coat — 
will you stand an' spake to me?'* 

"Who are you?" 

" Nothin' more nor less than an unfortunate beggar, that 
thramps, on her bare feet, from mornin' until night, to seek 
the bit an' the sup." 

" And what business can you have with me ?" 

"That's to be tould. Will you stand and spake to me, 
Miss Helen M*Neary ? Twill be useful for you to hear my 
words. Tell me that you'll stand and spake to me." 

" And how comes it that you know me so well?" 

" There is few widin twenty miles round, that I don't 
know, Miss ; sure I see everybody, some time or other. 
But you'll make the promise to me, Miss, an' 111 take away 
my hand, as I ought to do? Promise me to stand an' 
spake to me." 

" Well, I do promise ; and now, say whatever you have 
to say, good woman." 

" Thankee, Miss. But I am not a good woman, Miss ; I 
am far, far from id. I didn't larn to be good whin I was 
young, an' what I didn't larn thin, I didn't care about whin 
I was ould. I was comely whin I was ov your age, Miss ; 
but 'twould be betther to me than millions ov money, that 
I was blind, an' broken-backed, an' fit only to be kicked 
out ov the way, by every passer-by. An' young cratures 
have a notion, that beauty will do all an' everything fur 
them ; bud many a one lives to curse the face that brings 
only shame an' sorrow to its wearer ; an' I know now, whin 
'tis too late, that if there's pace fur a woman, rich or poor, 
in her ould age, 'tis by keepin' herself frum sin and shame 
whin she is young ; an' whin once a young girl goes wrong, 



FATHER CONNELL. 279 

every one she knew afore is bard upon her ; an 9 she is 
forced to take np wid people worse nor herself ; an' she 
goes on from evil to evil, an' she never raises her head 
again — never — never." The woman drooped her shoulders 
for a moment, and groaned. 

" And," she resumed, " the poor young crature can laugh 
an' shout too, afther a time : but it isn't joyful she is — 
no—" she looked straight but vaguely before her, as if 
taking a long retrospect of the sinml and mysterious past 
— " no, it isn't — joyful she is.'' 

" This is all very shocking," said Helen, deeply affected, 
" but what can it have to do with me ? What is your real 
business with me?" 

" Take care ov yourself, Miss Helen M'Neary," pursued 
the woman, not seeming to have noticed the interruption. 
" You're not sthronger against a sthrong temptation than 
another wid a handsome face." 

"What, woman!" 

"And if you havn't already gone asthray, the path that 
must lead you asthray isn't far frum your feet" 

" You are a bold an' an impertinent woman," said Helen, 
walking fast away, now in the direction of her home. 

"No matther about that," answered the stranger, dart- 
ing after her, and again catching at her dress. " Hear all 
I have to say, young lady. I tould you it would be useful 
to you to listen to me. I never was a wife, an' yet I was a 
mother. About eighteen years ago, I had a daughter as 
beautiful as the sun in May — too beautiful fur such a 
mother to have. Before her third year, she was stole away 
from me. I thought I'd never lay eyes on her agen. Bud 
I found her since then ; an' that Christian crature never 
lived, that is more comely to look at than she is. You are 
comely yourself, young lady, but she is beyond you. I 
thought my ould wicked heart was dead an' froze widin 
me : bud at the sight of my lost an' found daughter, I felt 
there was nature in id still ; she brought the life and the 
love back to id agen. An' I renumber times gone by ; I 
remimber my own misfortunes ; an' if any mother ever kep 
evil away from her child— evil to her body, or evil to her 
sowl — that evil will I keep frum my child. Ay, by the sky 
above my head 1 Ay, an' by Him that is above the sky ! 
The man or the woman that puts hurt or harm, grief or 



280 FATHER CONNELL. 

Borrow, upon my child, must feel bitther vengeance come 
upon their heads for the deed. Are yon harkenin' to me, 
young ladv ¥' 

"I am, indeed; but surely I have never harmed or in- 
jured your daughter?" 

"You have harmed her, an 9 you have injured her — 
though you didn't know you were doin' id. Bud let you 
know id now from my mouth; and let the words of my 
mouth caution you.* 9 

" Why, I do not even know your daughter. 99 

"Bud for all that, you are the bittherest foe she has upon 
the face of the earth. 

" I cannot possibly understand you. 99 

" Thin 111 give you the knowledge, Miss Helen M*Neary; 
an' forewarned forearmed, you know. My colleen, my child, 
that is left me, to warm the ould heart widin me— she has 
the deep love for Edmund Fennell, an 9 Edmund Fennell 
has the love for her — ay, ay — you may start back, an' you 
may knit your proud young eye-brows at me— bud she 
loves him, an 9 he loves her! An 9 no wondher that he 
should love my colleen dhass — for you couldn't look at her 
widout loving her. An' my daughter, my colleen, shan't 
walk in her mother's road, if that poor wicked mother can 
put a bar afore her. Bud you stand between the boy she 
loves and her, and you must not stand between them. You 
must not thry to coax Ned Fennell from my colleen. Ned 
Fennell must be my daughter's wedded husband and — or 
m/ curse, an' my vengeance, will cling to whoever hindhers 
him ! An' do you undherstand me now, my proud young 
lady?' 9 

During the latter part of this speech, the beggar-woman 
raised her bare arm high above her head; her tattered 
mantle had fallen from about her face, allowing her grey 
hair to be fluttered by the breeze ; and again, as if ex- 
pressly to give effect to her appearance, the moonlight 
flashed for an instant upon her features and figure, show- 
ing her eyes glittering with anticipated fury, and her teeth 
clenched in determination. 

" You'll stand fur me now, I see," she resumed, " widou 
houlding you, Miss M'Neary." 

Helen did not hear her, or at least, did not heed her, 
and made no immediate answer. She stood apart from 



FATHER CORNELL. 281 

the woman, vaguely staring at her, her head erect, her 
features and her whole air stern, for one so young. She 
dropped her eyes quickly upon the ground, and her face 
changed into a thoughtful expression, though a stern one 
stilL 

"And if this be true, 9 ' she at first asked herself, "for 
what have I braved my father's anger and my father's 
curse ? If this be true, on what kind of man have I be- 
stowed my heart's love, and to what kind of man have' I 
vowed a marriage vow ? But can it be true ?" 

Another short pause of thought, and she addressed the 
potato-beggar. 

"Your name is — I forget if you told it me before ; but 
what is your name ?" 

" Nelly Carty, Miss." 

" Youlive in the town yonder ?" 

Nelly assented, describing, with some vanity, her inde- 
pendent holding on Gallows Green. Helen shuddered 
for an instant, at the thought of her husband ever form- 
ing an improper connexion, with the daughter of such a 
woman. 

" How do you know that Mr. Fennell and your daughter 
are acquainted in the way you say ?" 

" How dov I know ? Didn't I see them together 1 
Didn't I hear them talking together ? Didn't I hear their 
kiss ? An' don't I remimber what the love is between two 
young people ?" 

Nelly Carty alluded to the night of the fire in Nick 
M'Grath's house, when Edmund and the beggar-girl had 
an interview in Joan Flaherty's hut, which she had imper- 
fectly witnessed over the cross wall of her dwelling. 

" And you solemnly assure me of this T 

" 111 swear id afore the priest fur you ; an' more be- 
token, if you go this moment to the same priest that I am 
now thinkin' of, you'll hear more ov my daughter, Mary 
Carty." 

" What ! Does she live under Father Connell's roof T 

"An* she does so," answered Nelly Carty. "Hearkee, 
Miss. Didn't you happen to come across her, or see her, 
whin you went there, wid Masther Fennell, late yesterday 
evenin' ?" 

Helen started, as she recollected the stealthy witness of 



282 FATHER CONNELL. 

her marriage, of whom she had caught only a vague glimpse 
in the darksomeneds of the little hall ; and she was now 
shocked and terrified, upon grounds distinct from her ap- 
prehensions of Edmund FennelTs unworthiness." 

Was the wretched woman before her — horrible to think 1 
— but was the wretched woman before her acquainted, 
through her daughter, with the deadly secret of her private 
marriage ?" 

"How do you know," she resumed, "that I was at 
Father Conner's last night? Did this daughter of yours 
tell you so V* 

" Why, thin, no, Miss Helen M'Neary, she did not tell 
me so. She tells me nothin'. She can tell me nothin*. 
We don't spake a word wid one another. We are not let 
to speak a word wid one another. The ould priest would 
not let us ; for he has made Mary Oarty a good girl, an' he 
knows well that her mother is not a good woman ; an' so he 
wouldn't let the wicked mother come near the innocent child." 

This was a relief. If Helen's rival were so carefully 
cherished in all good ways by so good a man, as Helen 
knew Father Connell to be, and protected against this 
woman, who called herself her mother, how could she be 
evil or bad ? Or how could Edmund Fennell and she ob- 
tain opportunities for such an interview as the potato-beg- 
gar reported herself to have witnessed ? This was a relief, 
if it were true. But, on the authority of such a person, 
was it true ? And was anything that had been uttered by 
that person true ? There was a conflicting incoherence in 
everything she had heard, and yet a plausibility, which 
irritated Helen. 

"Woman," she cried out, after a harrassing pause, "you 
must belie Mr. Fennell ; he cannot be what you would de- 
scribe him to me." 

" An' what is that ?" asked the beggar angrily. 

" He is not — oh, I know he is not — such a low, base 
profligate." 

" I called the young man by no such name, Miss. Bud I 
have my fears for the future," — answered the beggar-wo- 
man, again fiercely showing her former energy. " An' I 
only say what I said afore. Let him or let her that would 
hindher them frum bein* lawfully married take care what 
they do." 



FATHER CONNKLL. 288 

And this was another blessed relief to Helen. She saw 
plainly, from the woman's present meaning, that it was 
impossible her marriage could be known to ner. Bat still 
her mind was greatly tormented. She paused for another 
moment, and took her resolution to escape from all her un- 
certainty ; and then said — 

"Well! Good evening; and don't speak loud or hold 
me by my dress, as you have done before ; I am not afraid 
of you, woman—let me go on my way, to my father's house; 
good-night." 

" The good-night to you, thin, Miss ; but though you're 
not afraid of me, maybe you'd hearken to one word more 
that I have to say to you ; maybe you'd hear another rason 
why you ought not to stand in the way between Neddy 
Fennell an' Mary Oarty. You're goin' home to your father, 
you say. I'm glad to hear id ; fur listen, Miss. Mary 
Carty isn't goin' home to her father this night ; an' yet, 
Miss, fur as proud as you stand there afore me, hearkee to 
the word more I have to say — the man that is your father 
is Mary Carty's father." 

Helen turned, in utter astonishment, to question the 
woman ; but she had fled. Availing herself of some way, 
near at hand, of which Helen was ignorant, but with which 
she was well acquainted, Nelly Carty had quite disappeared. 
The lonely girl looked round, in every direction, with a 
strong impulse to follow her ; but, recollecting that her 
father must now long have expected her at home, she 
checked the impulse, and hastened towards the house. 

The determination, to which she had dome, she soon put 
into execution after her arrival at home. Certain that Ed- 
mund Fennell must have complied with her entreaties, on 
the previous night, to return to Dublin, she now wrote him 
a short note, directed to his address, in that city : — 

" Edmund— The instant you receive this, I conjure you by your de- 
clared love for me— and what is more— by my sincere love for you— to 
come back immediately, and remove from my mind, doubts, sprung up 
since our parting— the only doubts which, if you cannot explain them 
away— must ever make me mi«erable at the thought of being 

" Youb Wire." 

And this note she gave in charge to Tom Naddy, per- 
emptorily commanding him* to put it in the post-office of 



284 FATHER CONNELL. 

the town, two miles oft, that very night ; and, indeed, Tom 
was not faithless to his trust. 

Helen sat for some time, with as good a face as she oould 
wear, in her father's presence. Both then retired for the 
night 

And thus ended the second night of Helen's honey- 
moon. 

But the punishment of disobedience and indiscretion 
was not over. 



CHAPTEB XXXm. 



On re-entering his house, after seeing the young hus- 
band and wife beyond the threshold of his outside door, 
upon the evening of the unhappy marriage, Father Cou- 
ncil, still very saddened and meditative, again sat down in 
his little parlor. Mrs. Molloy could hear him sigh, and 
even ' groan, very often. His thoughts tried to occupy 
themselves with the new misfortune— for in his estimation, 
misfortune it was — that had happened under his roof that 
evening ; namely, the witnessing of the marriage of Ed- 
mund and Helen, by Mary Cooney. His displeasure was 
high against his housekeeper, for haying suffered the poor 
girl to leave her bedroom on the occasion. As to Mary, he 
feared much from her, on account of the unlucky circum- 
stance. So he sat a considerable time, revolving what was 
best to be done, and finally summoned Mrs. Molloy to his 
presence. 

Mrs. Molloy knew what she was called in for ; she also 
knew, in her heart, of what a dangerous negligence she 
had been guilty, and was really sorry for the crime ; but 
not quite so much so as she pretended to be. For she 
entered the parlor, hanging down her huge head upon her 
breast, holding upon her fore-finger her stiff check apron 
to her eyes, and uttering the little and broken sobs, which 
would intimate the gradual dying away of a great storm 
of grief. Not more than twice in her life before, had she 
deemed it necessary to become so utterly afflicted ; indeed, 



FATHER CONNELL. 285 

as may be called to mind, it was far from being her usual 
method of eluding her master's wrath ; at present, how* 
ever, she feared more than ever she had done the priest's 
displeasure, and hence the very rare occurrence of her 
self-humiliated, tearful, and contrite air. 

At the very first sight of her repentant sorrow, Father 
Connell, as she had anticipated would be the case, half 
forgave her her offence. He addressed her, however, very 



"I thought, Mrs. Molloy, I had laid my strict commands 
on you, to keep that poor child out of the way, during 
what was going on here, this evening?" 

First suffering to escape her many of the little sniffing 
sobs, just spoken of, the housekeeper assured the priest, 
that she thought she had turned the key in the lock of 
their bed-room door — for in Mrs. Molloy's sleeping- 
chamber, a little bed had been put up for Mary — but, as it 
would appear, she really had not done so, and "sure that 
was her only fault ; sure his Reverence knew, as well as 
she did, that no creature alive could be more careful than 
she was, ever and always ; only that the lock of that mis- 
fortunate dour, ever since the day it was nailed on, had a 
fashion of — " 

Father Connell interrupted her — " Mrs. Molloy, can you 
tell me if the poor child rally understood what was going 
on ? or that she had been long enough in the hall to under- 
stand it?" 

Mrs. Molloy was quite sure that she did, and that she 
had. 

"That is unfortunate, Mrs. Molloy, that is very, very 
unfortunate ; very unfortunate for us all, to say nothing of 
the affliction to herself. Is the poor young thing quieter 
now, Mrs. Molloy ?" 

" A little, sir. I had the world an' all ov* throuble, tryin' 
to coax her wid my two arms round her neck, and to pet 
her, an' to rason wid her, afore I could get her to stop 
cryin', sir." 

"And is she in bed yet, Peggy?" 

"No, sir." 

"Then, Peggy, the best thing you can do, I believe, is to 
tend her here to me till I speak a word with her too— don't 
you think so, Peggy? bo go out to her, Peggy, and tell her 



286 FATHBB COKXELL. 

I want to speak to her, the poor child ; and Peggy, as soo* 
as yon come back here with her, you needn't stay in the 
parlor, Peggy; I want to say something to her alone." 

The housekeeper accordingly withdrew ; returned in a 
moment with her young chaige; ushered her barely in- 
side the parlor door, and closed it on her, shutting herself 
out 

Mary performed her little drop-curtsy, on the spot where 
she was, and then stood stock still, her arms hanging by 
her sides, her head and eyes cast down, her face very pale, 
and a wretched expression about her compressed lips — the 
expression of a kind of resigned despair, which on the 
features of one so young and so handsome, it was miserable 
to see. 

After gazing a moment at her, the old priest silently 
held out both his hands to the poor girL She caught the 
motion by a sudden glance upwards ; let fall her eyes again 
on the ground, again made her simple curtsy, and advanced 
to his side. He closed his hands upon one of hers, and 
over, and over again, pressed it vigorously. 

" Well, well, my child ; well, well It can't be undone 
now, and I see you are sorry for it ; there now, there. It 
was a very wrong thing indeed to do ; in this house, my 
pet, my business is often of a secret nature, which ought 
not to be pried into, or spied into ; but there now, there ; 
I am sure you meant no harm." 

He released her hand ; she slided, without a word, to 
the back of his old arm-chair, and there remained stilL In 
a little time — " I didn't come to spy, or to pry, sir," she 
said timidly, and in a whisper. 

" And why did you come at all, then, my poor child?" 

" To look at him, sir — to look at him once agen, an 9 he 
such a long, long while away from me ; I didn't know what 
he was in the house for— och, och, I didn't! Och, if I did 
sure I could never stay in the house." 

"And I believe you, my child, I believe you; I believe 
that you did not come to pry, or to spy ; but it is wrong 
to talk of not staying in the house, Mary. And tell me, 
my child. How did you come to learn that Mr. Fennell 
was here at all?" 

"I hard the sound of his voice, sir, into Mrs. Molloy's 
bedroom, through the hall, an' through the kitchen — an 



FATHER CONNELL. 287 

If twenty halls an' kitchens were between me an' the sound 
of his voice, och, wouldn't I hear id? wouldn't I ?" 

" Well, I am glad to see you so grateful, Mary ; it is a 
very good thing, my child, to be grateful to our bene- 
factors." 

"It is, sir ; I know it is. Bud, och, sir, there's more 
than that in id. Afther all that is come an' gone, I love 
him in the heart yet, sir ; och, I do—I do love him in the 
heart" 

"To be sure, my child, to be sure you do ; you love him 
with a grateful love, which is due to the first friend you 
ever knew; and with a sisterly love, which you felt you 
owed to him for the brotherly love he promised you, the 
last time he went to see you on the Green ; and also, for 
his love to you since, in giving me the means, under God, 
of keeping you in this poor house, Mary ; for a poor house 
it is, child, unless when it is helped by a good, rich person 
like him ; and you owe him the love, too, my child, for 
enabling me to have you here, and make a good Christian 
of you, and a good little girl of you, and to keep you from 
Darby Cooney ; and a good girl you have become, my poor 
child, a very good girl ; and so, all that is right, Mary, 
right and proper, and like a good Christian, and I told you 
all along, that was the way to love him, my child." 

"I know, sir, I know; bud what's the use ov hidin' it 
frum you, of all the people on the face ov the earth ? For 
all the rasons that you laid down, sir, I love him, an' I 
thank him; I don't forget a single thing that ever he done 
for me, from the very first hour we came across each other. 
Whin he was the tendher-hearted little boy, that shared 
his own little breakfast wid me, an' I hungry an' wantin' it 
sorely; an' that pelted down Darby Cooney for me ; — och, 
no, I renumber id all; all that he has done fur me, up to 
this very day. An' fur all that, I love him, sir, in the way 
you say; bud, och, sir, over an' above all that, I love him! 
Ocn, sir, she was a beautiful crature, an' a grand crature, 
an' a stately crature, that you married him to here, this 
evenin' — wasn't she, sir?" 

"Hush, Mary! hush, my child. You had no right to 
know anything of that; and you have no right ever to 
speak of it, ever, ever to say a word about it. Do you 
know, Mary, that if that marriage was spoken of, out of 

13 



288 FATHER COWBELL. 



this house, he and the poor young lady, that k now Ida 
lawfol wife, would thereby suffer great misery?* 

"No, sir — hod would they?" asked Mary in breathless 
interest "Why bo, sir? How, sir?" 

"It is unnecessary, my poor child, that you should be 
made acquainted with the reasons, how and why; but I am 
sure you will believe your old priest's word, when he tells 
you as much — I am sure you win, Mary; and when he re- 
peats to you, that if the unfortunate marriage you were an 
eye-witness to this evening, should become known, for the 
present at least, the world hardly ever saw a more unhappy 
young pair than your friend Mr. FenneD, and his poor 
young wife, would be ; oh, yes, my child, a betrayal of that 
secret would indeed make them very, very wretched. And 
you take my word for it now, Mary ? You take my word 
for it, my good ^hi?" 

"I do, I do, sir, 99 she replied, in a trembling voice "I 
do, I do, sir — the poor young eratures! Air is that the 
way that the sorrow comes upon them in their early days? 
An' is that all that the love can do for them ? Bud, sir," 
she went on, after a moment's pause, "sure there's one 
comfort for them, anyhow. Sure their sacret can never be 
broke through, sir — never, never, sir? There's only one 
that you could have a fear ov breakin' through id, sir — an* 
sure she's too good a woman, an' she loves an' she fears 
God an' you, sir, too well to do id — isn't she, sir? Doesn't 
she, sir?" demanded poor Mary, now very eagerly. 

Father Connell was suddenly and deeply affected. It 
was plain to him that so remotely did she put herself out 
of the question of betrayal of the secret, Mary did not even 
dream that any one could suspect her of the act. And now 
he would not proceed a step farther, to blow a doubt of 
herself over the unsullied mirror of her own mind. Be- 
sides it would have been unnecessary to do so. Perfectly 
and thoroughly satisfied he was, that Edmund Fennell s 
secret marriage would never be divulged to a human being 
by Mary Oooney. 

And vet, he asked himself, is there not some human 
temptation to make her act differently? Would every one 
feel as free as this poor child does, on the occasion, of 
Jealousy, and the sins it whispers us to commit? He put 



FATHER CON NELL. 289 

back Lis hand to her, over his chair ; she laid hers in it, 
and he continued aloud : — 

" Now, may the Lord bless you, my child f but recollect- 
ing that he must answer her questions as to Mrs. Molloy'g 
trustworthiness, he added — " No, no, my child ; I have the 
fullest faith in Mrs. Molloy, and I put my entire confidence 
in her. No, no, my child, you are right, very right Sho * 
wouldn't do such a thing, I do believe, for the whole wide 
world." 

"Thank God!" said Mary, heaving a long, long sigh, but 
not a very unhappy one. 

"And now, come round here, to me, my good child, and 
my very good child, for your to-night's blessing." 

She did so, meekly and gracefully kneeling on one knee, 
and bowing her forehead, on her small clasped hands. The 

Sriest raised one of his, a little above her head, and prayed 
own, in a more lengthened prayer than usual, the bless- 
ing, and the grace, and the help of her God, upon the young 
sufferer. 

"And now again, Mary, I have one word to say to you, 
before you go to bed ; you are getting very lazy, Mary, my 
child—oh ay, you may stare at me, with your mouth wide 
open — but I tell you you are, Mary;" the old man laughed ; 
"there's the flower-bed, at the right-hand side of the 
summer-house, and I saw two weeds in it to-day ; worse 
than that ; there's my grand new surplice, that I would let 
no one but yourself put the nice work on — and it's not 
finished yet And Mick Dempsey tells me, that he was 
obliged to take back the last book he lent you — the won- 
derful life and history of Robinson Crusoe, he says — be- 
cause you read it too often, and didn't pay attention enough 
to your lessons for him. And now, you are a lazy little 
Mary — aren't you ? So, go along to your bed now, you 
little hussey, and if ever I have to make a complaint of you 
again, or if ever I hear a complaint of you again, 111 — oh, 
you can't think how I'll punish you, Mary." He shook and 
pressed her hand, and to the affectionate and benign ex- 
pression that broke through laughter, from his old hand- 
some blue eyes, Mary, before she left the parlor, smiled 
respondingly, with a relieved heart ; and she had scarcely 
gone, when a loud and quick knocking sounded at the outer 
door of his little premises. His mind misgiving him as to 



290 FATHER COHVBLL. 

whom the late visitor might be, he hastened in answer to 
the sammons himselt His misgiving was right It was 
Edmund Fennell, who came to consult with him upon 
Helen's advice and entreaties, that he should return imme- 
diately to Dublin. Not wishing Edmund again to go into 
his house that evening, Father Connell led him into the 
little garden, and there, walking up and down, they con- 
tinued their conference. The old priest, pausing often, and 
asking many questions, at length decided that, under all 
the circumstances, Helen's advice was a good one, and 
ought to be followed. Edmund promised to follow it, now 
coupled as it was with that of his old and most revered 
friend; in agitated and deep affliction, and in tears, he 
promised ; and so he and father Connell parted. And he 
kept his promise. 



♦»» 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Tn next morning, at break of day, Mary Oooney began 
to pluck away the two weeds in the flower-bed, to the right 
hand side of the "summer-house," and after them, a good 
many more that, the truth to tell, were to be found through- 
out the little garden. Then she went into the house, to 
wash the garden clay from her hands, that she might assist 
Mrs. Molloy in the discharge of some housewifery duties, 
which for many months she nad been accustomed to under- 
take. Breakfast followed ; then household affairs again ; 
after which, she made her best attempts at dressing for all 
day, and finally, taking her work-basket, containing the 
priest's surplice and her lesson-books for Mick Dempsey, 
went out into the little arbor, sat down in it, and began 
plying her needle, and coming her tasks alternately— 
indeed, often doing both things together. 

The following day, and very nearly at the same hour, she 
was once more at work and at study in the willow arbor. 
It was about three o'clock. Father Connoll was out. She 
heard a loud knocking at the door of the yard, which 
reverberated through the stillness of the little solitude all 



FATHER CONNBLL. 291 

around her. She started and looked straight down the 
garden walk, and through its wooden railing into the yard. 
A young lady, richly and fashionably dressed, and of noble 
carriage, Mary thought, and seemingly much interested 
about something, crossed the yard from the entrance door, 
speaking with Mrs. Molloy. Her own maid-servant fol- 
lowed her. They stopped before the little gate in earnest 
conversation. Mrs. Molloy pointed up the garden to the 
arbor; the lady, turning her head in the direction, imme- 
diately entered the garden, and advanced rapidly and alone 
towards Mary. 

At the first glance Mary recognised Edmund Fennell's 
wife ; and if the poor beggar-girl had thought her hand- 
some, and stately, and grand, upon the occasion of her 
private marriage, when she saw her in neglected attire, and 
pale, and depressed, and drooping, much, much higher was 
her present estimate of the personal pretensions of this 
young lady ; for now her eyes were flashing, her cheeks 
and lips rosy red ; her air animated and dignified, though, 
indeed, with a little dash of hauteur about it ; and as to 
her dress, Mary deemed she had never seen one so costly. 
To tell the truth, in anticipation of this very visit to Mary, 
Helen Fennell had put on her very gayest out-of-door 
finery, and in every respect decorated her person, so as to 
produce an overawing effect upon her poor rival 

Her first look at Mary, when half way up the garden 
path to the little arbor, greatly interested her. She saw a 
lo\ely young creature, of about her own age, clad from 
head to foot in habits of very humble material, but neat 
and spotless as a quaker's, and withal, fitting Mary ele- 
gantly, though not modishly. They were of a cut of Mary's 
own invention, but Helen thought it worthy of suggesting 
the fashion to a young countess on her wedding-day. 

She drew near her, and looked closer. She noticed the 
flowers at Mary's waist, and the simple one set among her 
golden ringlets, under the snow-white border of her modest 
little cap. Again she looked, and still more wistfully; and 
started back at the likeness of herself, that now appeared 
before her. She remembered the old beggar-woman's 
words, and believed, indeed, that it was a sister she looked 
upon. 

The two young women stood face *o face, together Mary 



292 FATHER CONNELL. 

had arisen, holding her work in her hand, and though she 
at first trembled a little, the weakness was soon either 
controlled by her self-possession, or absorbed in the admira- 
tion and awe with which she regarded her visiter. She 
made as profound a curtsy as she knew how to perform, 
and stood upright and still, her eyes fixed on those of 
Helen, which, in their turn, after she had saluted Mary 
more graciously than she thought she should have done, 
sent back the poor girl's gaze with interest And thus they 
remained for some little time, attentively studying each 
other. 

"How do you do, my dear?" Helen began, at length. 
"Will you allow me to rest myself in wis nice little 
summer-house, for a few minutes, until Father Connell 
comes home?" 

Mary grew paler than she had been, at the sound of 
Helen's voice, but she answered her without stammering, 
and with a natural ease, and affability, which ought to be 
called politeness. 

"Why I do declare," continued Helen, sitting down, 
" 'tis quite a nice little place altogether. And who keeps 
the garden so neatly, my dear? — pray isn't your name 
Mary— Mary Carty, I think ?" . 

" Mary Cooney, my lady, kindly at your service." 

" May I make so free as to call you Mary V 

" Och, ay, an' a thousand times welcome." 

"Well, I was going to ask you who does the work of the 
garden." 

" We all do id between us, my lady ; first, there's an ould 
lame gardener, that comes to prune the trees, an' to nail 
them up, an' do the heavy diggin' fur the vegetable beds ; 
an' afther that, the priest himself, an' his housekeeper, an' 
his boy, an' myself, we do what we can, in turn, my lady." 

" And what is your part of the work, Mary ?" 

" The flowers mostly, my lady." 

" Don't call me ' my lady'— don't call me * my lady,' Mary; 
'tis not my title." 

" I won't then — mam." 

The moment she had uttered the word, " mam," Mary 
blushed high, in a fear that she had done wrong, in at aU 
giving a clue to her knowledge of the secret marriage ; and, 
at the same moment, Helen winced under the almost car- 



FATHER CONNELL. 293 

tainty that, in making use of the word, Mary held her at 
her mercy. She did not immediately approach the topic, 
however. 

" Well, and what nice needlework are yon doing ?" She 
examined it. 

" Tis to be a surplice for the priest," answered Mary. 

" And you are reading too— may I look at your book f 
What is it ?" Helen took it up. 

" My lessons fur Mister Dempsey, your honor," and now 
Mary tried to escape the two dilemmas of ignorance of one 
of Helen's true titles, and a dangerous knowledge of an- 
other, in which she had already placed herself. 

Helen turned over the leaves of the book ; pondered, 
smiled, and again addressed her new acquaintance. 

"But do you know a woman of the name of Carty f— 
Nelly Carty?" 

Mary answered that she did. 

" And you are nothing to her *T 

Mary replied that she had no good reason to know she 
was. 

" But have you any reason to know that you are ?" 

Mary paused, evidently embarrassed. Helen watched 
her, for the first time, in a doubt of her sincerity. But 
Mary's hesitation soon cleared up into perfect ingenuous- 



" I have a reason to think that I am something to Nelly 
Carty, your honor; but I was bid not to say anything about 
it fur the present time, and that's why I hope you will not 
ask me any more questions on the head ov it." 

Helen looked into her face, and felt that she was telling 
truth. 

" Well, and why did you call me mam, just now, Mary?" 

The beggar-girl was more puzzled than ever. She 
changed color, again and again. 

" Tell me, Mary, do tell me," persisted Helen. 

The beggar-girl covered her face with her hands, and 
burst out crying. 

" Och, och, an' didn't I see you married to him, the night 
before the last t" 

" Well, Mary, and if you did, do you know that his 
dearest happiness and mine are in your keeping ? Do you 
know that if you told any one that you saw us married, he 



294 FATHER CONNELL. 

and I would be destroyed for ever? And could yon be- 
tray the secret, Mary ? Could you ?" 

The poor girl started up, flashing almost anger from her 
serene blue eyes, as she answered — 

"May God forgive you now, Mrs. Edmund Fennell," she 
said — " an' it's little you know the heart that's in the body 
of poor Mary Cooney, if ever you thought that she could 
harm a hair of the head of Edmund Fennell, or the hair 
of the head of any one that's his ! Och, may God forgive 
you." 

Helen, shedding some answering tears to those which 
gushed from Mary's eyes, soothed her, and assured her 
that she thought no such thing, and never, never, would 
she think such a thing. 

"But you loved him?" whispered Helen, after some 
time. 

"I did love him ; an' I do love him, in the very heart ; 
bud that's not the rason why I should do him hurt or 
harm," answered Mary. There was another pause between 
them. 

" How long is it since you first met ?" 

" Tis about six, or seven, or eight years." 

" And how often did you meet since, Mary V 

" Five times intirely — barrin' the night afore the last." 

" But," continued Helen, looking round her, and drop- 

Sing her voice still lower, while she recollected part of 
Telly Carty's communications of the night before— and 
she blushed deeply ere she spoke further — "there were 
kisses, Mary — kisses of the lips — he used to kiss your lips 
— and you used to kiss his lips — during those meetings? 

"He never kissed my lips," answered Mary, sighing 
deeply. "I remimber that well; bud I kissed Ids lips, 
three times in my whole life ; an' I never felt his kiss in 
return." 

Helen again looked at her, in utter amazement, though 
in perfect trustfulness. Her further questions led to a rail 
disclosure of Mary's acquaintance with Edmund Fennell— 
the old story — since they first became acquainted, boy and 
girl, almost child and child together ; and how Edmund 
took her away from Darby Gooney, and saved her from 
him, and gave the priest money to save her from him, and 
how she had lived, now nearly a year, under the priest'i 



FATHER CONVELL. 295 

roof comfortable and happy. Helen listened to her, in, 
if possible, increased wonder and admiration, and also with 
reflections that made Edmund Fennell dearer than ever to 
her heart. She took the still weeping Mary by the hands ; 
she put her head upon her shoulder, upon her bosom; 
and she told her over and over again, that henceforward 
she should be her dear friend and her sister, and that her 
home, and Mary's home, should be the same, the moment 
she had one to offer her. Mary thanked her often and 
fervently; and the two young rivals thus parted, each 
loving the other. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

Almost immediately after her interview with Nelly Carty, 
Helen, as may be remembered, wrote a letter, calling her 
husband from Dublin, merely upon information derived 
from a very disreputable source, that he was, or had been, 
unfaithful to her, by professing to love another. This was 
an impetuous stop, and before Helen retired to bed that 
night, she felt that it was. And now she grew impatient 
with herself for having been impatient, and resolved to 
govern herself better for the future. 

The following morning, her first reflection was, that 
Edmund had been foully belied, and Helen would no 
longer entertain the shade of a doubt of him. But the 
next moment, she fastened with avidity upon the thought 
that Edmund would be sure to be at her side that evening, 
and by his denials, and his disproofs of the strange 
woman's assertions, set her heart quite at rest ; and this 
showed that Helen still doubted, notwithstanding that she 
had told herself she did not At all events, she resolved 
and re-resolved, to bear the wearing away of the long, long 
day before her, quietly and patiently. 

About half-an-hour afterwards a little imp buzzed pass- 
ingly in her ear, that it would be a good thing to see and 
speak with her formidable rival ; and without awaiting her 
husbands's appearance, ascertain from herself in what re* 



SM FATHEE COflOL 



\ Edmund and she stood towards each other. Bat at 
first Helen would not attend to the tittle imp's hint, coura- 
geously resolving and striving to pot it out of her head. 
He came back on the wing -very soon, and renewed it close 
at her ear ; Helen wavered— and again — and Helen went 
to see Mary Gooney. 

Perhaps the little imp should not have been called a little 
imp, for, after all, there was nothing very mischievous in 
his suggestion. Certainly, compared with the flounder- 
ing fellow who advised Helen to write the letter to Dublin, 
tins was a little angel of wisdom. 

Helen returned home from her visit to the beggar-girl, 
in Father Connefl's garden, much, much happier than 
before she had made it. And now she was sorry indeed 
for having written to Edmund FennelL The remainder 
of the day passed on, and the greater portion of the even- 
ing, and she became again more impatient than ever. But 
her maid came in, upon some pretence, to the parlor, where 
she was sitting with her father, and gave a secret signal 
to Helen, which she was authorised to do by virtue of as 
secret a whisper, interspersed with a bar or two of whist- 
ling, received from Tom Naddy, and Helen's heart beat 
thick and fast. And, in fact, having obtained permission 
from her father to go out of doors a moment, and run round 
and round the house to enjoy the moonlight, Helen bound- 
ingly issued forth, and in a secret place met her bridegroom 
husband. 

Everything necessary for an explanation was said on 
both sides, and Helen's heart became indeed perfectly 
relieved of any doubt of Edmund FennelL In his conduct 
towards poor Mary Oooney, she now saw nothing that was 
not pure, generous, and noble. They were lingering out 
their interview, when an unseen person knowingly cried 
"hem!" very near them. 

a That's your maid," said Edmund. 

"And she is come to inform me, that my father grows 
impatient of my absence from the house," whispered Helen, 
"so good-night, dearest Edmund! And that sad word — 
farewell, too t Forgive my precipitancy in calling you here 
from Dublin — but you will go back again to-morrow morn- 
ing at least" 

Edmund, interrupting her, pleaded very hard for one 



FATHER CONNELL. 297 

interview more the next evening, after which he would 
instantly — instantly return to Dublin ; and Helen need not 
fear that it should be known he was in the town so near 
at hand ; he would conceal himself all the following day in 
private lodgings ; and Edmund was interrupted, in his 
turn, by a bellow from one of the windows of the house, 
embodying these words : — 

"Helen! Helen 1 Where the devil are you, you bag- 
gage ? Come in this moment out* of the night air, where- 
ever you are t Do you want to get the quinzy or the rheu- 
matism before your time, you young hussey ? Come in, I 
say, and let me and the moon go to bed, or let her go to 
the devil if she likes." The young couple could interchange 
but few words more ; but still Edmund pressed his re- 
quest ; and Helen granted it. And the next night Edmund 
did come to see his young bride ; but he saw her not 

Early in the morning Gaby M'Neary rode to the town, 
to attend the grand jury assizes, the circuit judge having 
arrived the previous day. 

It was late when he was on the road homewards, as he 
had dined with certain of Dick Wresham's scholars, and 
the evening sitting had been very convivial In fact, night 
had already begun to fall 

It did not suit Gaby M'Neary's habit of body to have it 
shaken violently when he rode abroad, so that he now 
allowed his quiet horse quietly to walk along, picking his 
steps, in slow progress towards his stable door. Gaby's 
heavy oaken cudgel was over his shoulder. He had cleared 
the suburbs about a mile, when the animal he bestrode 
suddenly stopped, and seemed to wonder very much at 
something to one side of the road, a few paces in advance ; 
but this was no skittishness on the part of the beast ; it 
was, in fact, just what it has been called, excessive wonder, 
mixed up, indeed, with grave inquiry. So, he looked, and 
looked, and having at length decided in his own mind that 
the object was only a potato-beggar, squatted on her bag, 
filled with the produce of her day's begging, he soberly 
proceeded on his journey. 

Gaby M'Neary had, like his horse, been studiously ob- 
serving the figure, and arrived, with him, at the same 
decision concerning it. Horse and master went on a few 
paces. The person stood up, deliberately walked into the 



298 FATHER CONNELL 

centre of the way, and as deliberately took hold of the 
bridle of the former. Again the animal stood stilL 

"Who the devil are you? And what do you want?" 
questioned Gaby M*Neary, unshouldering his cudgel and 
clutching it firmly. 

" You ought to know me well enough, Masther Gaby," 
answered the woman. 

" What, you ould bundle of nastiness 1 Why the devil 
should I know who you* are, or anything about you ?" 

"An* vet, I tell you again, you ought to know me well 
enough/' she repeated. 

"Yes — ay — now I guess. Oh, Gog, you rap I And 
havn't you the assurance of the mother of Beelzebub her- 
uelf to come across my road, and stop my horse and me, 
in this manner? Let the bridle go, or 111 break this 
cudgel lamb-basting you !" 

"It is sixteen years now, Masther Gaby, senoe I opened 
my lips to you afore." 

" And let it be seventy-six before you do it again, I ad- 
vise you ; — take away your hand, I tell you 1" He made a 
blow at her knuckles, but missed them, nearly losing his 
own balance in the saddle at the same time. 

" Masther Gaby, that beautiful little child—* 1 

"Ha! Blur-an-fury ! And you begin to talk of that 
now? You jade! Didn't I support the child, and you 
too, right well? Didn't I love the poor little creature? 
Didn't I promise, and didn't I intend to provide well for 
it ? And didn't you make away with the innocent child ? 
You did, you fagot ! — you did, you unnatural brute, you 
did!" 

" No, Masther Gaby ; the child was stole from me." 

" The child was murthered, you mean ! Murthered by 
its own mother! You Jezebel! I know it was! I'd 
swear it was! Leave my path! Quit my sight! Six- 
teen years ago, I cautioned you never to cross my path 
again, if you didn't want to be seized upon, and hanged 
for the murther of that poor infant !" 

"I remimber your words well, Masther Gaby ; an' frum 
that day to this, I never cum next or near you ; bud it 
wasn't the fear of death that kep me away ; it was, because 
I couldn't look in the father's face widout thinkin' of my 
beautiful darlin' that was taken frum me." 



FATHER CONNELL. 

"Let go my bridle, or 111 ride over you !* 

" Masther Gaby, many days won't pass, until 111 prove 
to you that I didn't murther my own child ; an' enough 
said now, Masther Gaby, until that time comes about ; bud 
I have a few more words to spake to you. Ton have 
another daughter — Masther Gaby, look well to your lawful 
daughther, or you'll lose her." 

" What's that you say, you ould hell-hound? What's 
that you say ?" 

" I tell you," replied she, now letting go the horse's 
bridle, and stepping a little to one side of the road, while 
her voice lost its submissiveness, and became daring — 
"I tell you, Masther Gaby, that if you don't guard Miss 
Helen M*Neary like a jailor, youll lose her." 

" Curses on your bones ! What do you mean ?" 

" I tell you that youll lose her, if you dont guard her 
well ; them were my words ; an' I tell you now, into the 
bargain, that if you don't guard her well, shell be very 
likely to take the road that I took whin I was a colleen, 
about her very age at present" 

" Oh, you screech-owl ! Oh, you damn'd liar 1" and Gaby 
thumped his horse's sides with his heels, while he also 
smote them with his heavy stick, turning the animal's head 
towards Nelly Carty — "Oh, by the big Gog, 111 charge 
through you, vou soothsayer ! Oh, you prognosticator I 

" Let your horse stand where it is," she exclaimed. " It's 
fitther fur you to listen to all I have to say, than fly into 
that passion, and curse down curses that's enough to make 
the sky fall an' cover us ; there, your poor horse has more 
sense nor yourself ; see, he won't stir a step to hurt ma 
Listen now. What Tm goin' to say is as thrue as that I'm 
spakin', an' that you are there to hearken to me. Last 
night, your daughter — Miss Helen M'Neary, I mane — held 
a lonely meeting outside ov your house, in the connthry, 
wid a young man you know well — Ned Fennell by name — " 

"Ton are a liar I" roared Gaby M'Neary — "a liar! a 
Ear!" 

"I am not a liar — I spake the blessed truth — she met 
him last night, in the little shrubbery, at the left side of 
the house— an' his arms war round your daughther — an' 
wid a kiss they met each other — an' wid a kisa they parted 
from each other — ay — ay — roar out at me again if you like 



tOO father coram*. 



— bod all this is throe— you thought he was in Dublin, far 
away from her— but that's the way they desave yon." 

" Nelly Carty, I will not roar out at yon now." Gaby 
M'Neary's voice, and Gaby M'Neary's self, trembled as he 
spoke. " How did yon come to know all this Y* 

" I watched them. I watched them close, close — I seen 
them wid my Kvin'eyes, in the shrubbery together. Watch 
your daughther yourself as close as I did, an' your own 
eyes 11 witness for you." 

Gaby M*Neary sat for an instant silent and motionless 
in his saddle. The furious working of his nerves were not, 
at all events, visible to the eye of Nelly Carty. 

" An' I have a little more to tell you," she resumed. 

"Well, go on." 

" Sure he's to meet her agen, this very night, an' in the 
zery same place." 

" And how do you know that too V 

"I hard 'em settlin' it wid ache other." 

" Very good," said Gaby AFNeary. 

At this period of the conference, a man with a wallet on 
his back, hobbled up the road, and passed very close to 
Nelly Carty ; a something like a boy trotted at his heels. 
The potato-beggar started, peered after him for an instant, 
flew after him the next, seized him by the shoulders, turned 
him suddenly round, and stared into his very eyes. 

"Help! give help here!" she cried, in frantic accents. 
" Help, Masther Gabyl I hould the man that stole the 
child sixteen years agone — an' that's come back here now 
to kill her, kill her ! I know id, I know idl Nothing else 
brings him back. Help, help ! to hould the murtherer 1" 

Robin Costigan exerted ail his remaining strength to free 
himself, but his old friend held him firmly. Gaby M*Neary, 
overwhelmed as he was, by the tidings he had just heard, 
did not attend to Nelly's caiL Impatient to be at home, 
that he might confront his daughter, he cudgelled his sober 
horse, until the poor animal's sides resounded under his 
blows. But the Babby, who for a moment had been only 
an observant looker-on, sprang to the assistance of his 
revered tutor. Seizing the arms of the beggar-woman 
from behind, while Robin Costigan still struggled his best 
with her in front, the vulture gripe of her fingers was soon 
loosed, while, at the same instant, her youthful assaulter 



FATHER GONNBLL. 801 

adroitly tripped up her heels, and then dragged and flung 
her into a ditch, half filled with water, by the road-side. 
Before she could recover herself, and contrive to scramble 
and splash out of it, the old robber had wound himself 
through a contiguous fence in the neighboring fields, and, 
closely followed by his helper, hobbled, with marvellous 
speed, in the direction of the river, which flowed through 
the valley, below the road, at some distance from him. 

Nelly Carty gazed around her, in every direction, still 
feeling somewhat stunned and stupefied from her late harsh 
treatment Robin Gostigan was nowhere to be seen. Gaby 
M'Neary was also out of view. She held her head tightly 
between her hands, as if her thoughts were material, and 
that she could thereby compress them. 

" Ay, ay," she despairingly muttered, " he is come back 
here, sure enough, to shed the blood of my own beautiful 
darlm' 1 Bud 111 stop his murthering hand, if there's a 
one born can do id!" And abandoning the potato-bag, 
which that day had cost her so much toil and trouble, she 
raced along the road, in the direction of the town. 

" 111 be there afore him," she continued constantly to 
mutter, " 111 be there afore him, or death will sthrike me 
into a cowld hape on my road there I" 

Not an instant did she slacken her great speed, until 
she airived in the suburbs of the town, and stood before 
Father ConneU's residence. The entrance-door being open, 
she rushed into the little yard, screaming out for her 
daughter — "Mary Garty, her daughther! Mary Garty, 
her own colleen beg, her own beautiful darlin' 1 her own 
chorra-ma-chree /" 

The house-door was also open, and, her screams increas- 
ing, she broke into the quiet dwelling. Father Gonnell 
met her in the passage. She was not disrespectful to him 
—but she called on him to produce her child, and place 
her before her eyes. She wanted no more, she would ask 
no more ; and let him only give her a sight of her child, 
safe and sound, and she would quit his house the moment 
after. 

Astonished at her claiming Mary Cooney, as her daughter, 
but also greatly affected by her agony of grief, the priest 
soothingly assured her that Mary should immediately stand 
before her, and he sent Mrs. Molloy into her bedroom, to 



SOS FATHER COHHELL. 

summon her forth— the housekeeper informing him thai it 
was there die was to be found, as, one or two hours before, 
she had retired thither with her book and her work. But 
Mary Cooney was not now in the bedroom. The potato* 
beggar shrieking high, in terror and angnish,jran to search 
the bedroom herself; then through and through the house, 
from top to bottom, die searched, but did not see her 
daughter. 

She ran into the yard, the garden, the stable — she ex- 
amined every corner — still without success. With out- 
stretched arms, she fled from the priest's premises into the 
neighboring streets, hurrying from house to house, and 
questioning all she met for her "own colleen beg — her ould 
heart's daxtw 9 "— but still and still the distraught mother 
found not her child. 

And Father Connell and his housekeeper, also greatly 
alarmed for their poor young inmate, made vain search in 
every direction for her. 



♦»» 



CHAPTER XXXVL 

Mercilessly belaboring his poor phlegmatic horse, with 
his heavy cudgel — fury in his eyes, and threats and curses 
on his frothy lips — Gaby M'Neary pushed on for his 
country-house. Arrived there, he thundered at its door, 
with his cudgel as well as with the knocker, so loudly, that 
the interior of the structure, from roof to cellar, rang and 
echoed again. 

His very first peal had not concluded, when the door 
was nulled open by the boding and anxious Tom Naddy. 

" Why have you kept me waiting so long, you unchris- 
tened whelp ?" he asked, with lungs that filled the house, 
even more fearfully than his knocking had done, and at the 
same time, he dealt Tom Naddy a blow with his clenched 
fist, that spun him round as if he had been a cork. 

Not pausing for an instant, he then went up stairs, 
punching down his stick, at every step he took, with a vio- 
lence that might seem to say he would wound, and hurt 



FATHER CONKELL. 803 

even the insensible timber he walked upon. He almost 
burst open the drawing-room door. Haying let fall a book 
from her hands, his daughter, pale, and trembling very 
much, sat before him. She had heard the lion's roar, she 
had anticipated its meaning, and she awaited, in terror and 
confusion, his approach. 

He hastened straight on to her. He fiercely, seized her 
arm ; she winced and wreathed under the pain of his tight 



oh! soh! soh! — my lady — madam — you have dis- 
graced your father !" 

He chucked her upward on her feet ; and shook her so 
violently that she must have fallen, but that the enraged 
man held her tottering figure partly erect by the arm, 
round which he still tightened his grip, with a pressure 
such as the jaws of a vice might have inflicted. Helen 
screamed from pain and terror. 

" Oh, father I" she cried, " have pity P 

"Pity on you! pity on such a creature as you I Have 
you not disgraced me ? Answer me that question ! Will 
you — will you answer me? Am I the father of a base 
daughter ? Answer me 1" 

" Oh, father ! Oh, sir! I can scarcely utter a word, you 
so frighten me, and hurt me— oh, father, you will kill meP 

" Still, I say, answer me ! Is your mother's daughter a 
degraded — a self-degraded wretch ?" 

"No, father, she is not!" 

" Is she the vile refuse of the beggar's brat, Fennell? Is 
she f his roar rose to a scream. 

" No, father, she is not." Helen was now able to stand 
upright, without tottering, and her tears were fast drying 
on her blazing cheeks. 

" Did the beggar's brat, Fennell, meet you outside my 
house last night? And were his arms around you ! And 
did ye meet with a kiss, and with a kiss did ye part? — 
Answer me P 

" Father, dear father, I will not I cannot tell you an un- 
truth—I—" 

" Then it is true ! then ye did meet in secret— outside 
my house, and in the night-time ? And ye met with a kiss, 
and with a kiss ye parted ? Get from me, jade P 

He flung her to the floor, smiting her violently on the 



801 PATHBH coymsLL. 

cheek, as she dropped down. Outrageous passion is, Cot 
the time, outrageous madness. 

He ground and gnashed his teeth — his eyes glared with 
insane fury ; he hurried about, totally bereft of reason. 
He seized several of the frail little ornaments of the 
drawing-room, and pelted them against the wall, shivering 
them in pieces ; he bellowed, imprecated, and cursed, like 
a veritable maniac. 

His daughter lay motionless, upon her face, on the floor, 
and she was nearly as insensible as she was motionless. 
She heard his terrible voice, but knew not what he said. 
She felt a sense of immediate danger — of almost present 
death ; but now understood nothing distinctly. 

" Get up on your feet !" resumed her father, after some 
time. " Get up on your feet, or 111 trample on your dis- 
graced carcass, while the life is in it ! Get up this mo- 
ment!" 

With great pain and difficulty, Helen endeavored to obey 
her frantic parent. She rose, and resting both her hands 
upon the back of a chair, thus kept herself from again 
falling. 

" And he is to come here again to-night," her father con- 
tinued, grinning closely into her face, and speaking through 
his clenched teeth. " And you'll ask me again to-night, to 
go out and look at the moon — the chaste moon — as your 
poets call her — that is so fit for your admiration — and so fit 
a witness of your stolen meetings with the beggar! You 
have made another appointment with him for this very 
night — have you not ? Hah ! by the great heavens ! he is 
sculking about my house this very moment !" 

Thus interrupting himself, Gaby M'Neary started and 
listened. The gigantic watch-dog without began to bay 
furiously, setting up the peculiar angry bark, which 
seemed to denote that he was in almost immediate contact 
with an intruder. 

Gaby M'Neary threw up the window, and looked 
out 

"Hulloo, hulloo, Bully! Hold him, boy! Hold him, 
Bully, until I come I Hulloo, hulloo, dog !" and his voice 
almost drowned that of the roaring brute ne addressed. 

He hurried into his bed-room, off the drawing-room. 
He issued back from it with a musket in his hands, which 



FATHER CONNELL. 805 

was always kept carefully loaded. He quickly descended 
the stairs, to the hall, bellowing forth, on his way : — 

"Hulloo, hulloo, Bully! Hold him fast! Fm coming) 
Hold the beggar's brat ! — Hulloo, hulloo, dog ! Hold him, 
hold him!" 

He flung open the hall-door. At this moment, his 
daughter rushed staggering down the stairs, her hands 
clasped and clenched against her throat ; her eyes and 
mouth wide open with terror — her hair dishevelled, and 
blood streaming over her cheek and neck, into her bosom. 
She flung herself on her knees before her father. 

"Take my life," she said, "and spare his! I am his 
wedded wife ! I am his lawful wife, as sure as my mother 
was your lawful wife ! I am his wedded wife, and he is my 
wedded husband, and I can die to save him !" 

" Hah ! his wife ? Die then, wife of the beggar ! Die 
then, by the Heavens above me !" 

The insane man pressed the muzzle of his musket to his 
daughter's forehead, and pulled at the trigger ; she did not 
wince; bat the piece was only half-cocked, and ere he could 
snatch back the cock, it was wrenched oat of his hands by 
Tom Naddy, who instantly discharged it through the open 
hall-door, and then pitched it far into the lawn. 

" Cur ! — mongrel cur !" shrieked his insane master, now 
almost inarticulate from hoarseness and passion, while the 
thick clammy foam upon his lips also helped to make his 
utterance imperfect. "Mongrel cur! how durst you do 
that?" 

"To save you," answered Tom Naddy, walking back- 
ward towards the door from which he had emerged into 
the hall, while his furious master advanced on him — "to 
save you, you misfortunate man, from doin' a murther 
upon your own child, that would banish the sleep from 
your eyes, till the day they would hang you for it ;" and 
Naddy stepped inside the door-way, shut the door in his 
master's face, and locked it on the inside. 

The baffled madman strove to kick it open. Failing in 
his attempt, he reapproached his daughter. She was still 
kneeling, now almost stupefied from exhaustion. " Up, up 
again !" he cried, once more clutching her arm, and forcing 
her up — " and begone from my house this moment ! Quit 
it, and quit my sight for ever ! Go to the beggar that you 



806 FATHER CONNELL. 

call your husband ! Go, keep your appointment with him 
—Get away I Begone, begone, jade ! out of my house and 
my sight I 

Speaking thus, in disjointed words, he pushed her with 
both his hands across the hall, out at the door, and closed 
it with all his force upon her — the ponderous door, as it 
banged and clashed to, making a noise to which all the 
quiet places abroad re-echoed. The next instant Gaby 
M'Neary had fainted on the flags of the halL 



CHAPTER XXXVIL 



Helen had not spoken a word to her father, while the last 
shocking circumstances were occurring. With eyes fixed 
upon his face, not beseechingly, nor yet reproachfully, she 
only seemed to listen, with the utmost attention, to every 
word that came from his lipa He placed the barrier of 
the door between him and her ; and though she staggered 
from the force of his push, ere he had done so, Helen 
remained standing. Outside the door, she continued 
listening intently, bending her ear towards it, as closely as 
possible. She did not hear her father's heavy fall, which 
was almost simultaneous with the thundering clash that 
accompanied her expulsion from his roof — and otherwise 
all was silent. Her father spoke no further words, and 
Helen concluded, must have retired from the hall to the 

Earlor. Then she slowly knelt down ; raised her clasped 
ands above her head, and, straining her eyes upwards, 
muttered : — 

" I give praises and thanks to my God in heaven ! my 
father has not cursed me l" 

She stood up and looked around her. It was a drizzly 
night, and the moon but imperfectly risen and wholly 
clouded ; and there stood Helen, wearing only her slight 
evening dress, and bare-headed, and bleeding, and now 
shivering with cold, as well as from utter wretchedness, an 
outcast, she thought, from human shelter or sympathy. 
Again she strained her sight in every direction ; the form 



FATHER C0NNELL. 30T 

of him whom her eyes sought, now her only protector, was 
not anywhere to be seen. She started at a sudden recol- 
lection of his seeming to have come in contact with the fero- 
cious watch-dog ; perhaps the savage animal had torn him 
and killed him ; and she looked with shrinking horror on 
and about the spot, where to judge from the dog's posi- 
tion, when he barked and yelled, the evil must have hap- 
pened. Nothing was to be seen ; and she uttered another 
thanksgiving. She descended the few steps from the hall- 
door, and again stood still, on the gravel before the lawn ; 
and once more peered round her through the darkness ; 
but still her scrutiny was in vain. Gradually, and almost 
unconsciously, she walked away from her former home, 
often timidly stopping, and calling on her husband's 
name. 

Hasty steps sounded coming after her, as if from the 
house : she turned eagerly round. Her father might have 
relented, and sent somebody to bring back to his hearth- 
stone his only child. It was Tom Naddy who approached 
her. He held a bundle in his hand, for the contents of 
which he had sent her maid into Helen's apartments. He 
produced from it a bonnet and cloak, and obtained per- 
mission from Helen to assist her, in covering her head and 
person from the night wind, and the penetrating mist 
Other things were in the bundle, which he carefully tied 
up, and handed to his young mistress. She passively al- 
lowed him to adjust her cloak, and it was almost mechani- 
cally that she took the bundle from him. 

She inquired for her father. 

He had shut himself up in his bedroom, Tom said, after 
calling for wine, and he would let no one near him, but 
kept walking up and down the apartment And this was 
true ; although Tom made no allusion to Gaby M'Neary's 
having fainted in the hall, nor to his, Tom's, efforts to re- 
store him to his senses. 

" An' you'll meet the young masther, mam," said Tom, 
M afore you go far, plase God ; an' put all that about the 
dog an' himself out ov your head, fur no such thing hap- 
pened, mam. You know the way to the river-side, don't 
you, mam?" 

Helen answered that she thought she did. 

" Well, mam, the moon, God bless her, 'ill soor be up, 



S08 FATHER CONNBLL. 

an 9 shell guide yon. Isn't id the river-side way the yowag 
masther is to come to-night, mam ?" 
Helen answered that it was. 

" Well, mam, sure you can't fail to meet wid him ; an 9 
Fd go wid yon, mam, to be company to yon on the way, 
only I know, I can do betther far you an' the young masther 
by stayin' in the house ; besides, if the ould masther was 
to come to miss me out now, Fd have no chance ov gettin 
in agen ; but sure God will guard you, an' guide you, as 
well as the moon, mam, an' betther ; an' as soon as ever I 
can folly afther you, I will, mam. An' make straight fur 
the river-side, an' 111 be bail, you'll soon meet wid one that 
will be a comfort to you." 
"Naddyl" 
"Yis, mam." 

" You'll mind every word my father says, and you'll re- 
port every word truly to me ?" 
" I will indeed, mam," 

" Every syllable he utters, Tom — every syllable he utters. 
Promise me solemnly — every syllable he utters.'' 

" I give you the promise, mam ; and I'll mind every syl- 
lable that comes out of his mouth." 

" And Tom, be sure, Tom, to mark well, if my father 
lays his curse upon me!" 

" He won't do id, mam. You'll find he won't — God for- 
bid he should. 9 ' 

" Amen, amen to that, Tom ! But, be on the watch for 
me : — the path to the river-side, you say?" 

" Yis, mam, fur that's the way the young masther 'ill 
come, mam. ~ 

" Oh, yes, now I recollect ; but it is very dark, and some- 
how, I cannot see as well as usual, but that is not to be 
wondered at. — Good-night." 

" Don't go too far anyhow, mam ; if you don't meet the 
young masther very soon intirely, sit down an' wait for me, 
mam ; an' .111 race afther you, an 9 overtake you, as soon as 
ever I can quit the house agen, wid safety to us alL" 
" Very well, Tom — good-night" 

"May the Lord be wid you, mam; an' the good-night 
kindly to you, mam." 

Tom, running towards the house, was soon lost to her 
view ; and Helen, with her bundle on her arm, but uncon- 



FATHER CONNELL. 309 

soious that she held it, proceeded on her way to the river- 
side. 

From the effects of the fall of the heavy mist, the path 
she chose was miry and clinging, and almost at every step, 
her feet nearly slid from under her. She had gone but a 
short distance, when one of her slight slippers fastened in 
the clay, and shortly afterwards she lost the other. She 
went on, almost on her bare feet, over stiles and fences ; 
the rough stones of the tortuous path, and the stumps and 
briars of the fences, often coming in contact with them 
and causing them to bleed. Two or three times she fell, 
and was severely bruised ; and then there was the misera- 
ble consciousness of floundering through mud or wet grass, 
and briars, in the endeavor to regain her upright position. 
And yet, she made way against every obstacle with a sin- 
gular pertinacity. Her mind was, in fact, in a state of 
wretched confusion. It seemed to her, as if the hands of 
her angry father were, with resistless force, continually 
pushing her forward ; and she felt a sensation of utter aban- 
donment, because no other arm was offered to support her. 

At length, the physical power to go farther quite failed 
Helen, and she sat down, from sheer exhaustion, not know- 
ing the distance she had proceeded, or indeed the course 
she had taken. Then, it was a mercy to her that she wept, 
and wept profusely ; by the indulgence of her tears, nature 
was relieved, and the exercise of her reason in some degree 
restored to her. 

And then too, for the first time, did she feel the hurts 
she had received, and confessed to herself the feebleness 
of her body ; while also for the first time did she cast her 
eyes around her, in a reasoning effort to ascertain where 
she was. 

The moon was now rapidly rising higher, and the pall of 
dingy clouds which had heretofore shrouded the whole 
arch overhead, was rolling itself up and away, leaving only 
some torn and loose fragments behind it ; and the stars 
twinkled through deep blue ; and the edges of these por- 
tions of vapor, nearest to the moon, began to assume a 
weak silvery tinge. The night was clearing up, in fact* 
and likely to become fine and lightsome. 

But it was in vain that Helen, now capable of profiting 
by this favorable change, endeavored to renew an acquaint- 



S10 FATHER CONNELL. 

ance with the objects around : they were strange, or nearly 
so to her ; she had strayed, in fact, from the river-side 
path, in some direction not familiar to her perceptions ; 
and yet she now called to mind that it was the river-side 
path branching to the house she had intended to take, in 
order to meet her husband. 

"Heaven protect me!" she ejaculated, "we shall miss 
each other, and I fear I must perish if I am left much 
longer without assistance. 

Raising herself up, as well as she was able, Helen now 
listened anxiously for the sound of an approaching foot- 
step. She only heard the noise of falling water straight 
before her ; but even that was a slight relief. She knew 
that at this point the river was crossed by a weir, whence 
continued another path to the town, with which she was 
well acquainted ; if once upon that path, she might suc- 
ceed in gaining the town, and then her husband might be 
made aware of her situation ; but how far was the river 
from her? And by what way was it approachable? 
She peered through the distance, half-chequered with the 
week moonlight — fences and other obstructions were be- 
tween her and the sound she heard ; these difficulties she 
could not expect to overcome, and she again sank down 
despairingly. 

The next moment, however, as the thought of the long, 
long night came upon her, she once more started up, and 
tottered in the direction of the river. The noise of the 
falling water grew more distinct. The clouds had now 
almost entirely passed away from the moon, which, quietly 
mounting higher and higher in the heavens, flung her 
almost perfect light over the open country ; and gaining 
a little courage from this seemingly good omen, Helen, 
with increased pain and suffering, slowly proceeded on her 
course. She passed two fields, crossing their dividing 
fences with the utmost difficulty. She reached the summit 
of a third boundary ; the noise of the weir came with 
certainty upon her ear, and she was sure that she saw the 
moonbeams glittering and dancing over the white foamy 
water which the barrier caused. She praised God again, 
and scrambled, and sometimes crawled forward, on hands 
and knees. One field only remained between her and the 
river-side, and that was a rapid descent. 



FATHER CONNKLL. 811 

Suddenly, men's voices, in angry discussion, fixed her 
attention, and the sound seemed to arise between her and 
the very point she had to attain. This was terrible— 
instinctively, she looked round for a hiding-place Above 
where she stood was a little hollow, on the hill side, par- 
tially screened by briars and bushes. To it she crept, and 
down into it, again lacerating herself with thorns and 
broken branches ; and crouching among the bushes, lis- 
tened, with all her powers of hearing, to the very voices 
that filled her with horror. She had lost, without attend- 
ing to the loss, her bundle, her bonnet, and even her 
cloak. 

The loud talking ceased, and there was but one man's 
voice now heard, out this one was fearfully harsh and 
abrupt Then female tones, in prayer and expostulation, 
mingled with it; then female screams, shrill, long, and 

Eiercing, rang through the night air; and then, Helen 
eard the noise of a heavy blow, and the long shrieks 
suddenly stopped, subsiding into a low, melancholy cry, 
followed by deep, deep moans ; and a second blow, accom- 
panied by a hissing sound of the human breath, such as 
workmen utter, when they labor with the hatchet Per- 
fect silence ensued, for a short time, only interrupted by 
the whispering of the night-breeze through the grass, and 
through the bushes, and by the gentle mil of water, near 
at hand. 

Oh, that was a pause of thrilling horror to Helen ! for, 
above all her previous suffering, fear, and confusion, the 
conviction that she had overheard the doing of a murder, 
curdled her pure heart's blood, and made her very soul 
cower within ner 1 

Hasty footsteps entered the little hollow, and paused 
within a few feet of where she lay concealed. 

"This is the place that the ould divil bid us wait for 
him," said a hoarse, deep voice but in cautious tones. 

" It is," answered another person — and the two words 
were spoken with a shudder. 

" That was a black act,* 1 continued the first voice. 

" Oh, it was a bloody deed ! Oh, the thought of this 
night will never lave my mind, never, never ! I wouldn't 
wish for all the world's coin, if 'twas laid before me this 
moment, that I didn't stop the hand of that hell-bird ! Oh, 

14 



812 FATHER CONKLL. 

she was a darlin', poor young crature ! Why didn't we 
save her, Paul ?" 

" That oath ! that frightful oath !" 

" I'd break fifty oaths if I had the power of savin' her 
over agen, or if I could bring back the life to my poor 
beautiful Mary — I would — I would,'* and the man whom 
his confreres railed Molocth, or the wicked, suddenly stop- 
ped speaking, for his throat filled up to suffocation, and a 
throe of very agony was laboring in his black bosom. 

" Bud her blood isn't on our hands, Dinnis ?" 

" No. Bud curses be on our cowardly hands that didn't 
save her !" 

" Unless we tuk ould Darby's life, an' buried him wid the 
weight of a hill's clay lying on his body, what use would 
there be in savin' her to-night, Dennis? He'd meet her 
agen, an' he'd have his revenge ; an' you know there's 
others to stand by Darby the divil ; so that we couldn't be 
safe frum him or them — " 

" If id was to be done agen, I'd save her, if he called up 
forty red divils to his side !" 

" Husth ! he's comin' on us — There's no use in vexin' 
him, Dinnis." 

The only answer Dennis made, was conveyed by delving 
his heel into the sod, and folding his arms tightly across 
his breast. 

Robin Costigan rapidly hobbled up the little ascent from 
the river, closely followed by the Babby ; and Helen, in her 
hiding-place, could hear the puffing of his hyena breath, as 
he stood close to her. 

"Is the horse an' car at the cross-roads?" he questioned. 

" It is there, an' Terry is guardin' id," answered Dennis. 

"An' the lashes* turned mouth to mouth in id, as I 
touldye?" 

" An' the kishes, as you tould us." 

"Babby!" 

The familiar called came near, and looked up into the 
eyes of his superior. The full radiance of the moon shone 
on the face of the boy-monster, revealing the spots and 
dashes of blood upon it 

" Babby ! get the bundle we left behind us — an' hurry 1 

• Kin-* shallow, oblong oaler basket, op«n at top, and fitting clow into • tat 



FATHER CONNELL. 313 

—ye must be at the house by day-dawn, an 9 ue out of id 
agin in a hand's time, if the horse dropped down dead for 
id — 111 go my own way afther ye — harry, hurry I" 

The Babby parted with his arm the bushes and briars 
that shaded Helen's place of concealment, and towards 
which he had been glancing. Instantly he stood transfixed, 
as if changed into stone, and he stared as if his eyes would 
fly from their sockets. 

"Hurry, hurry! Didn't I bid you hurry?" growled 
Costigan's voice, dangerously. 

The well known accents of authority half broke the spell 
which had bound the precocious villain ; he jumped back- 
ward, clutched his dreaded master by the arm, and with 
quivering fingers, pointed towards Helen's hiding-place. 

"What's the matther?" questioned Costigan, himself 
shivering. 

"We left her below on the bank— dead — stone dead," 
whispered his pupil, "an' yet, now she is in there — in 
there." 

"Who? who is there?" 

" Mary — Mary — that we killed — is in there — I saw her 
sittin' in id — her eyes wide open, lookin' at me — ay, I saw 
her — the blood over her cheek too — ay, I saw her." 

.Robin Costigan advanced, and in turn drew back the 
screen of wild bushes — 

"An' don't you see her yourself?" continued the Babby. 
" Yis, an' by hell's fire, that other — that ould woman is at 
her back now !" 

But Costigan beheld only the horror-stricken and very 
nearly unconscious Helen, sitting behind the screen, her 
knees crippled up against her chest ; her clenched hands 
resting on them ; her neck and chin bent forward, and her 
eyes distended, without once winking. 

Her great resemblance to her half-sister, poor Mary 
Cooney, had deceived the conscience-stricken and most 
unnatural boy ; bat Robin Costigan was not so taken by 
surprise. Only for a moment he gazed at Helen — and then 
seized her, and dragged her forth from her little retreat 

In dreams, while the most terrific circumstances are 
presented to the fancy, the greatest degree of horror we 
experience is when we make vain efforts to scream out our 
agony. Such was the sensation which now oppressed 



814 FATHER CONNELL. 

Helen. A shriek would have relieved the freezing terror 
of her heart, but she could not utter it ; no— nor could she 
make even one struggle, one show of resistance; and a 
moment after, everything was whirl around her — her heart 
seemed to burst from its own tightness ; and observation 
and sense quite forsook her. Robin Costigan knew well 
who she was. Neither was he ignorant of the relationship 
existing between her and Mary Cooney. 

" What are you doin' there ? What did* you hear, or 
what did you see, while you were there?" he questioned ; 
but Helen answered not ; her eyes closed, her Knees bent, 
and she was supported in Costigan's loathsome arms, while 
he scowled into her face, and showed symptoms of a re- 
newal of the tragedy which had been perpetrated at the 
river-side. 

But Molocth interfered, and swore it should not be. 

" Shell hang us — hang us — " growled his chief. 

" There's enough of blood spilt," answered Dennis Kee- 
gan, "an' fur poor Mary's sake, no finger shall harum this 
colleen. 99 

" What do you say — what do you say ?" questioned Cos- 
tigan. 

" I say that if I tuk you by the heels, Darby the divil — 
an' I'm sthrong enough to do id, — I say, that if I tuk you 
by the heels, an' put your brains upon that rock, no harum 
shall come to her." 

" I hear you — I hear you," muttered Robin, and there 
was a threat in his words and tone. 

" Heed me, then," retorted the mutineer. 

" Here— carry her to the lushes." 

Molocth frowned at him. But Paul Finigan remon- 
strated with his surly comrade, representing that if Helen 
was left behind, detection of the murder of Mary Cooney 
must certainly take place before they could retire, as they 
had arranged, to a remote extremity of the kingdom, where 
the rest of their community awaited them ; that they might 
be careful of their prisoner for a while, and then release 
her ; and above all, he whispered that it would be a fatal 
step to irritate Darby Cooney too far. Molocth yielded to 
this reasoning. During the short conference, Costigan had 
been silent and observant 

" Take her to the kishes," he once more commanded. 



FATHER C0NNELL. 315 

M Bud no harum is to come to her — mind that — " insisted 
Molocth. 
" Take her — take her from me — an' curses on her an' you !" 
Helen was accordingly borne, by the two men, to the 
" cross-roads," about a quarter of a mile distant, and there 
deposited by them in the wicker kish, upon some damp 
straw. Another kish was placed ovej this one, bottom 
uppermost, and well secured in its placj with ropes. Then 
the vehicle moved rapidly off, 



CHAFTEB XXXVUX 

Mbs. Mollot had truly related, that on the evening When 
Nelly Oarty sought the beggar-girl at the priest's house, 
Mary had retired into her bed-room, with her books and 
her work. 

But her mind was not with either. She moved her lips 
mechanically, and uttered low, mumbling sounds, as she 
endeavored to commit her task to memory ; or she bent 
her eyes on her old patron's surplice, and strove to add a 
sprig or a leaf to its simple embroidery — no use. Her 
heart still fluttered with the ruffling agitation of the day 
before. She recurred, again and again, to all the details 
of the visit of Edmund FennelTs young wife ; to the 
features, the person, the manner, the sweet address, the 
sweet accents, and the everything fascinating of her suc- 
cessful rival ; and then she reflected how very, very happy 
Edmund must be in the possession of such a bride ; and 
she schooled herself, while tears came gush, gush from her 
eyes, to pray for a continuation of that happiness to him, 
and for countless blessings upon them both. 

A great yearning to see Edmund Fennell mixed, how* 
ever, every moment, with her reveries. Mary would give 
the wide world just to see him once more alone, and to tell 
him about the new acquaintance she had formed, and how 
beautiful his young wife was, and how grand, and how 
kind, and friendly — there surely could be no harm in 
wanting to speak with him, only for that. Indeed, and 



316 FATHER CONHELL. 

indeed, and God himself cocdd witness, she had no other 
motive. But Edmund was in Dublin, for, far away — Mary 
believed, almost as far away as the end of the world from 
her, and from every one that loved him ; so it was no use 
thinking any farther about the matter. 

At that moment, Edmund Fennell, his head and eyes 
intently cast down, passed rapidly by her window. Yield- 
ing to instantaneous impulse, Mary snatched up her little, 
coarse straw bonnet and her cloak, and really and truly 
without a defined intention, and in perfect innocence of 
heart, stole through the house on tip-toe, through the 
house-door, and through the yard-door, leaving both open 
after her, as Kelly Carty had found them, and then walked 
along the suburb street, towards the country, in Edmund's 
track. 

After clearing this suburb street, Edmund Fennell, with- 
out looking to the right or to the left, had advanced about 
half-a-mile along the river-side, or near to it. Mary as yet 
kept at some distance behind him. There was now a level 
meadow to his one hand, extending to the water's brink, 
and immediately to his other hand, a grove crossed the . 
hill side, through which wound the beaten pathway. In 
this spot Mary Cooney ran forward to overtake him. He 
heard her rapid, light footsteps behind him, — he turned, 
and instantly encountered poor Mary, flushed and panting, 
from the excitement and unusual effort of her race, and 
laughing and crying together, from her emotions. Unable 
to speak a word, she clung to his arm. In low and gentle 
tones, Edmund at first inquired why she had thus followed 
him. Still deprived of the power of distinct utterance, 
Mary replied, in gasps, that she could not tell ; only her 
eye had caught him passing by the priest's house, and she 
had run out just to see him and to speak with him — it was 
so very, very long since they had had a word together — 
and to walk a bit at his side, through the green fields, and 
by the shining river, and — here Mary's breath again quite 
failed her. 

Edmund gently expostulated with her ; pointing out the 
unseemliness of their being thus observed together. She 
wept, and still clung to his arm. He called to mind what 
business he had in hand ; he looked at his watch — there 
was now scarcely time to be punctual in his appointment 



FATHER CONNBLL. 81? 

with Helen ; and, in a voice and manner less gentle, 
though still only energetic, he again exhorted Mary to re- 
lease his arm, and leave him free to walk on as fast as he 
could ; respect for herself, he said, even her sense of deli- 
cacy* ought to tell her she was acting wrong. Besides, he 
had a pressing engagement, and must keep it 

Mary now wept outright; she could well conjecture 
what engagement he meant, and upon mere natural im- 
pulse clung closer to him. Time still lapsed, Edmund's 
voice sounded high, and perhaps harshly, though he did 
not intend it Suddenly, though even yet not ungently, 
he freed himself of his poor follower, and the instant he 
had done so, ran forward with as much speed as he could. 

Mary, after standing an instant alone, grew giddy and 
weak, and dropped on the grass. Soon getting a little 
better, she listened for the sound of his retreating foot- 
steps ; they came not on her ear ; it was deep twilight, 
and she could not at all get a glimpse of his figure. And 
now, half sitting up, the force of her original feelings 
towards Edmund, httle checked for the moment by the 
discipline they had lately undergone, took possession of 
poor Mary's bosom, and she began to give vent, in loud 
lamentations, to her sense of abandonment and hopeless- 
ness — clapping her hands, and rocking her body to and 
fro. 

The fit in a degree subsided ; she jumped up and looked 
about her. But no thought of home came into her head ; 
no thought of Mrs. Molloy's fireside, or of her evening 
sitting with Father ConneU, or of her needlework, or of 
her books for Mick Dempsey ; and she at length mechan- 
ically and stupidly wandered forward in the direction 
which Edmund had taken, without purpose and without 
hope. 

She soon grew weary, and tired, and cold, and wet, from 
the falling mist, and the keen breeze of the autumn even- 
ing. She again looked round her. The river was still 
near at hand, but she had never before been so far along 
its banks. Home now slightly occurred to her ; but she 
did not want to go home so soon ; she sat down on a large 
stone ; and here, along with all her agitation of mind, all 
her young love's despair, all her weariness, her shivering, 
and the almost drenching she hid encountered, another 



818 FATHER CONNELL. 

passion began to seize upon Mary's heart ; and that pas- 
sion was fear 1 deadly, sickening fear, in her present lonely 
and unprotected situation. Terrible fear — her old fear — 
her fear of Darby Gooney ! 

And at that very moment, Darby Cooney's eye was upon 
her — he was watching her from a hiding-place, as she sat 
on the large stone. Her own mother, Nelly Carty, had 
sent him down to meet her at the river-side, by interrupt- 
ing his course on the high-road, towards the conclusion of 
her interview with Gaby M'Neary. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 



Ned Fknwell rapidly proceeded on his way. He arrived 
at the place agreed on, between Helen and himself, for 
their meeting. She was not there. For a long time, he 
awaited her coming ; she did not come. Oppressed with 
forebodings of evil, Edmund, after a lengthened watching, 
left the spot, and came within view of Gaby M'Nearjrs 
little villa. Here all was dark, stilly, and sad, with the ex- 
ception of the windows of the bed-room which he knew to 
be occupied by the master of the house. None of the 
others had a gleam of light in them ; but in tins one can- 
dles burned brightly ; and across the linen blinds, which 
were drawn down, he could see pass and repass the shade 
of Gaby M'Neary's figure. Vainly did he bend his eyes to 
detect light or sound in Helen's sleeping-chamber. He 
stole to the rear of the house. Still an was dark and dis- 
mally silent. He returned to its front Gaby M'Neary 
was still pacing up and down his room. He went back to 
the place of appointed rendezvous — it was lonely. Again 
he visited the house ; again he saw Gaby M'Neary's 
shadow flit from window to window — but nothing more. 
And thus he spent the livelong night walking from the 
ground of appointment to the house, and from the house 
back again to it ; and still, Gaby M'Neary's shade — as if it 
had been his veritable ghost, troubled after death, on ac- 
count of his own monstrous cursing and swearing while in 



FATHER CONNELL. 819 

the flesh, appeared on the window-blinds ; and there was 
nought else to afford him subject for observation. 

The day dawned. It was twilight. The earliest rising 
bird, the robin, sang a little ballad, in the joy of the com- 
ing day ; the little wren next began his chirp, in the green 
hedge ; anon from their far-off rookery, came the serious 
industrious crows, cawing and croaking, and giving all 
kinds of directions, and making all kinds of signals to each 
other, as they heavily winged their way, in line of march, 
above Edmund's head ; and, ere the sun's rays glanced 
upwards, over the heavens, imbuing the clouds with grada- 
tions of vermilion color, from dense to sober, from, sober 
to glorious, the lark sprung up from his nest — 

41 — and to morning's gate, 
Soared the god to gratulate." 

And then, they were all awake ; all the birds, the little 
and the greater, all that can sing, or utter a cry, or a note ; 
the swift, the martin, and the swallow, darting like arrows 
through the air, and twittering as they shot along ; the 
thrush and the blackbird whistling and gurgling forth their 
songs ; the piping bullfinch ; the chaffinch, with his mono- 
tonous couplet ; the gay linnet, with his prolonged piece of 
music ; the impudent sparrow, with his bold and noisy 
chirping ; the goldfinch, with his loud and excelling melody; 
the yellow hammer, with his musical call ; the hedge-spar- 
row, the lonely tenant of the hedge, with his single sad 
note ; the jackdaw, daw, dawing, but still doing his best to 
give utterance to his pert and frisky satisfaction ; nor must 
even the Sir Motley of the open fields, the magpie, be for- 
gotten, although his voice of joy broke forth only in a most 
pragmatical jabber ; all, all the birds were awake, and up, 
and out, and doing. 

Upon no former morning, during his whole past life, 
could Edmund Fennell have been uninfluenced by those 
sights and sounds, and all the other sights and sounds of 
early morning around him ; often had they had the power, 
acting upon his sympathising and ready spirit, of making 
him jump high and shout out with very joy. Now he heard 
them not — he saw them not Fears for the safety of his 
young wife possessed him, to the full oxclusion of every 



820 FATHKB COXNELL. 

other interest Her father's rage had sudtlenly overtaken 
her in some shape or other, too horrible to conjecture ; and 
her private marriage with him was the cause of the calam- 
ity. So he could only loiter and linger near the house, or 
in the place named for the meeting, long after the morning 
broke, and until the broad glory of full day warned him, 
that a longer delay must expose him to disagreeable ob- 
servation. 

He then paced towards the river-side, in deep and 
troubled thought ; and, still absorbed in painful reflection, 
he came near to a little crowd of ten or more persons, 
before he was aware of their proximity. He glanced at 
them observantly for a moment Some were discoursing 
eagerly, and with excited gestures ; while the greater num- 
ber listened with countenances of terror-stricken interest 

Edmund recollected his soiled and, it must be haggard, 
appearance, the result of a night spent in agitation, with- 
out repose, and in the wet and miry fields ; and not wish- 
ing to attract notice, in such a trim, he turned from the 
men, re-crossed the stile which he had just come over, and 
keeping to the right, continued steatmly by a high and 
close hedge — still on his way towards the town, however. 
The hedge ran up a rising ground, but ended at the top of 
the ascent ; he became exposed to the view of the persons 
whose eyes he wished to avoid, and he continued his way, 
running. To his great astonishment, these people shouted 
after him, and amid their shouts or their loud talking with 
one another, Edmund thought he could catch the sound of 
his own name, pronounced in angry accents. He looked 
and listened. The crowd, now increasing in numbers, 
were in rapid motion towards him, and certainly called out 
to him by name, and threateningly commanded him to stop. 
He did stop, and fully confronted them, still in great wond- 
er. Nearer and nearer they came, making a great clamor, 
adressing him in opprobrious language, and uttering shrill 
and hooting shouts. They closed upon him, and struck at 
him. He defended himself against the fierce, and to him, 
unaccountable aggression, but was soon overpowered. 
They threw him on his back on the ground, and bound his 
arms. 

" What do you mean V he asked, amidst the deafening 
•lamor, " what have I done ?" 



FATHER CONNELL. 821 

Twenty voices answered together. "You know well 
what you've done ! You have done a frightful murder !" 
and they groaned at him in the guttural accents of detesta- 
tion. 

Through all their noise, a single whisper pierced its way 
into his ear, distinctly uttering the following words: — 

" Will you stand by the gallows' foot, now, an* Robin Cos- 
tigan swinging on it ?" 

He turned his head, and looked keenly in the direction 
whence the whisper came; it had been uttered by one of 
the men who leaned over him, holding him down on his 
back ; this person having jumped up, was now shuffling 
away through the crowd. Edmund called on the people to 
seize him, but his voice was drowned in the uproar of 
threats and revilings directed against himself ; and when, 
perforce, he was obliged to march towards the town, sur- 
rounded by his captors, Edmund vainly sought to discover, 
in the angry faces of those around him, the never-to-be- 
forgotten features of his inveterate, self-vowed enemy, 
Robert Costigan. 

Bruised and bleeding, from the blows he had received — 
bareheaded too, for his hat had fallen off in the scuffle — 
bound with ropes — his dress torn, almost to tatters — and 
preceded and followed by a yelling crowd, that every in- 
stant augmented, Edmund Fennel! was conveyed along 
the streets of his native town. 

As they passed through the populous suburb, men, wo- 
men, and children came out in hundreds to meet him, and, 
when they had learned the cause of his being a prisoner, to 
shout at him with the rest — to groan at him, abuse him, 
and execrate him. 

He was taken to the house of the chief magistrate. The 
gravity of the charge brought against him ensured a speedy 
investigation of it ; and before seven o'clock that morning 
the accused was formally committed to prison to stand his 
trial for his life, in the course of the same day, before the 
judge whom Gaby M'Neary had gone to attend as grand 
juror upon the previous one. 

His sudden capture, the severe ill-treatment he had 
received, his rapid committal to jail, together with his pro- 
ceeding agitation on Helen's account, and his sleepless and 
restless night — everything had so stunned Edmund Fennell, 



822 FATHER CONNELL. 

that he could scarcely attend to the evidence adduced 
against him before the magistrate. Now, in his lonesome 
cell, his mind began slightly to settle, and to comprehend 
the magnitude of his danger, and he could recur somewhat 
more distinctly to that evidence. 

There had been unseen witnesses of his interview with 
Mary Cooney, late on the previous evening. 

It will be recollected that she had come up with him at 
a point where a grove, ascending a hill, was to his one 
hand, and the river with a spread of level sward between 
it and him to his other hand. On the immediate verge of 
the water, two men were at this moment reclining. They 
were engaged angling with lines, and thus at their ease 
inertly watched the progress of their sport. 

These men had observed the meeting between the beg 
gar-girl and her young benefactor. Too distant to over- 
hear the conversation of the youthful pair, they could 
understand, however, that, in the very first instance, the 
girl* wished to remain with Ned Fennell, and that he wished 
to part from her. When Edmund's voice rose high, they 
caught its accents, though still not the words he spoke ; 
but they noticed well his separating poor Mary's clinging 
hands from his arm, his sudden and quick retreat, her as 
sudden fall upon the grass, which they believed and swore 
to have been caused by his violence ; and then her sobs 
and cries distinctly reached them ; and finally they saw 
her wander along the path which Edmund had taken, until 
she was quite lost to their view. And in conclusion, they 
swore that, from the tones of his voice, and from his angry 
gestures at parting from her, the young man had, to the 
best of their belief, addressed threatening words to the 
young girL 

The body was not discovered on the spot where, evident- 
ly, murder had been perpetrated— evidently according to 
all the evidence. For on that spot was a stone, smeared 
with blood, and near it a lock of long, shining hair bad 
been found, also clotted with blood ; the sward around was 
much trodden and trampled, and close to the water, on the 
bank above, was an impression in the grass — plainly one 
made by a recumbent female figure ; while round the im- 
print of the head, and defining its form, appeared a mass 
of coagulated gore. 



FATHER CONNELL. 823 

Then, Ned Fennell had been absent from his home all 
the night, and he was seized near the scene of the murder, 
while in the very act of returning to it, doubtless, after 
haying conveyed the corpse of his victim to some place 
of concealment not yet ascertained — and returning to it 
for the purpose of obliterating all marks and proofs of 
his abominable crime. And the appearance of his attire 
proved that he had spent the hours of darkness prowling 
in muddy places, while the expression of his face suggested 
that he had recently undergone fatigue and agitation ; and 
what but guilt could have made him skulk away, from the 
group of persons at the river-side, and creep along the 
hedges, and run fast when they first called to him ? 

There were, indeed, no marks of blood upon him ; but 
those he must have washed away, for his clothes were 
quite wet. 

On this evidence Edmund Fennell was committed for 
trial Little more than an hour elapsed, however, when 
additional facts were brought against him, which, in the 
public eye, fully proved him a murderer. 

Gaby M'Neary had, the previous night, turned his only 
daughter and only child out of his house, in consequence 
of discovering a private intimacy between her and Ned 
Fennell. This Gaby himself was authority for. The lock 
of hair found near the blood-covered stone, and which 
evidently had been torn by force from the wearer's head, 
he at once recognised as being of the exact color and 
texture of his daughter's hair. In the little hollow on the 
hill side, a cloak and bonnet were discovered; also a 
bundle containing articles of female dress — all of which he 
knew, and got others to prove, to have been the property 
of Helen M'Neary. The cloak and bonnet were shown to 
the men who had observed the meeting between Edmund 
Fennell and an unknown young person the evening before ; 
and although they could not swear to the color or texture 
of these matters, still, to the best of their belief, they were 
the self-same cloak and bonnet which the girl had on. 
Helen M'Neary, then, was the individual murdered by 
Edmund Fennell. Search had been made for her in every 
direction ; but " tale or tidings " of her no one could sup- 

Ely. And after her expulsion from her father's house she 
ad gone to seek her seducer, and either throw herself 



324 FATHER COKKBLIm 

npon his protection, or upbraid him as the author of her 
misfortunes ; and she met with him by chance by the river- 
side, and he flung her off and ran from her, and she 
followed him, and it must be, again overtook him ; and 
then irritated by her continued reproofs, and giving wav 
to what must have been a long-lurking change in his feel- 
ings towards her, the former ardent and successful lover 
freed himself, by the alternative of murder, of his now 
hated victim. 



CHAPTER XL. 

It is not in the power of language to convey, even re- 
motely, a notion of the overwhelming horror, that tumbled 
down upon Edmund Fennell, as this new evidence was 
communicated to him. He had fixed it as certain in his 
own mind that, after parting from Mary Oooney, she had 
been encountered and murdered by Robin Costigan. All 
his recollections of the old villain's threats to the poor 
beggar-girl, and the indistinct vision caught of him, while 
Edmund lay bound and prostrate among his captors, 
plausibly confirmed the truth of this conclusion ; and, 
apart from his own sufferings and danger, he experienced 
many a bitter pang, while contemplating the supposed fate 
of his unhappy young friend. 

But now it seemed certain, that his own wife had been 
the victim of the mysterious tragedy 1 And that he, he 
was accused as the shedder of her blood 1 And yet, that 
was nothing : nay, he was almost glad of it, for in horror, 
in despair, and in prostration of heart and mind, he 
grimly felt that public exposure, public revilings, and a 
public death upon the gallows, were now necessary to suit 
and to end his inexpressible sense of misery. 

There is an old saying — "when a man is down, down 
with him ;" and Edmund Fennell soon proved it to be a 
truism. Anticipated condemnation was universal against 
him. No word of pity for his situation was spoken from 
one to another, throughout his native city; and not one 



FATHER CONNELL. 825 

voice was raised in doubt of the guilt of a formerly es- 
teemed, and well-conducted young person. 

In his prison, no friendly face appeared to offer him 
counsel or consolation. Under favor of the jailor, indeed, 
many came to gaze at him ; but, although Edmund could 
recognise some intimate acquaintances among those curious 
persons, none of them now stepped forth to offer him the 
hand of fellowship ; but they scowled at him, or else gaped 
half in fear, upon the haggard murderer. 

The hour for his trial drew near. The jailor appeared to 
warn him of the fact, and to advise him to send for a legal 
person to prepare his defence. Edmund started at the 
official stupidly. His mind was one whirl of confusion and 
dismay; and he could scarcely understand what he was 
asked to do. But at length comprehending that he was 
exhorted to take friendly counsel of some one, he desired 
that Father Connell, and Tom Naddy might be sent for. 
This request was granted ; but the messenger soon re- 
turned to say, that the priest was distant in the country 
since daybreak that morning ; and that Tom Naddy had 
quitted his master's house, and was nowhere to be 
heard of. 

The jailor 'again proposed that an attorney should be 
called in, with all dispatch — adding that the grand jury, in 
the court-house above their heads, had found true bills 
against Edmund, and that his indictment was in progress 
of being made out ; so that, therefore, not an instant was 
to be lost. An attorney accordingly attended the accused; 
and to him Edmund over and over again said — "I am 
innocent ! I am totally innocent of this hideous charge. 
As God lives and hears me, I am innocent l" But he could 
not bring his mind further to commune with his legal 
adviser. The gentleman put questions in detail to him ; 
he answered only by bewailing the loss of his young wife, 
and wringing his hands, and shuddering at the thoughts of 
her horrid death. 

The attorney quitted his cell, and in strict confidence 
told the first person who asked him a question on the sub- 
ject, that he would do all in his power for the young fellow, 
but that he feared with little chance of success ; and very 
knowingly he shook his head as he made this declaration. 

About two hours more went by, and, true to his prog* 



32S FATHER COKHKLL. 

noetic, the jailor came to conduct Edmund np to the oourfc 
house. After traversing some narrow dark passages, the? 
arrived at a flight of spiral steps, ascended it-—and through 
a trap-door, Edmund suddenly found himself emerged into 
the dock of the city-court — a sea of heads before him and 
around him — his judge, clothed in scarlet and ermine 
straight before him— the galleries also thronged with human 
faces to his front and to either hand — and every face turned 
to him — and the hosts of cold detesting eyes fixed on him 
— a freezing firmament of eyes, poor Edmund vaguely 
thought. 

He was stunned for an instant, and staggered towards 
the side of the dock. 

"And is it Robin Costigan they are gom* to thry fur his 
life to-day 1" asked a voice, in a whispering under-growl, 
close to him. 

He jumped round, but again failed to catch a sight of 
certain well-known features. 

The jailor called him to stand forward at the bar. His 
jury were being sworn, he said, and this was the time for 
his challenges, if he had any to make. 

Edmund really did not understand ; but he answered 
" No ; he had no challenges to make ; he had nothing to 
object to any one." 

It may be asserted that the anticipated public condem- 
nation, out of doors, aooompanied the very iury into their 
box ; — that in fact, they had already, each in Lis own breast, 
agreed on their verdict. A few there might have been 
amongst them, who, as they looked at the pale ghastly lad, 
still in his soiled and torn attire, and his toilet wholly 
unattended to, because wholly unthought of, said to them- 
selves — " we must divest ourselves of our prejudice ;" but 
this very resolve to guard against their prejudice, only 
proved its existence. 

The trial proceeded. The evidence given before the 
magistrate was now repeated against the arraigned pris- 
oner at thi) bar. Edmund seemed to attend to what was 
going on ; but his mind was, for the most part, far away — 
summoning up before itself a horrid and revolting picture 
of Helen's murder, by the lonely river-side. A slip of 
paper reached him from an unknown person, and was de- 
livered into his hands by the jailor. Edmund read upon 



FATHER CONWELL. 827 

it, M Has the prisoner no counsel ?" He replied, speaking 
to the jailor, " No — not one," and took no farther notice 
of the matter. The jailor telegraphed the meaning of 
this answer to a young gentleman, sitting near the evi- 
dence table, who immediately rose, and addressed the 
court. He was a briefless barrister, just "called/ 9 and 
"going circuit," upon the vague hope of being, some 
time or other, engaged in some case or other, by some 
attorney or other. But the briefless young barrister had a 
feeling heart, if not professional notoriety ; and this, joined 
with a little laudable ambition to make himself known in 
any way, now caused him, as has been said, to address the 
judge. 

" My lord," he began, " the unhappy young prisoner at 
the bar not having counsel engaged, I will act for him, if 
he and your lordship are satisfied." 

The jailor whispered Ned Fennell, and again nodded 
assentingly to the volunteer counsel ; the judge, after a 
wide distension of his cheeks, and the emission of a long 
puff of breath, also nodded. 

"Then, my lord, I have at once to submit, that the 
prisoner having been called on to plead against a charge 
of murder which no one saw him commit, and which even 
cannot be proved to have been committed at all — for the 
case for the prosecution has just closed, without either 
attempt at such proof having been made — " 

" My lord," interrupted a little sharp-faced gentleman, 
hopping up from the seats assigned to the prosecuting 
counsel — " I beg Mr. A — a — a— a — a's pardon ; but if he 
will have a little patience, he may And much of his sagacity 
anticipated; we have not formally closed our case, my 
lord ; and we paused a moment only to consider a new 
piece of evidence — " 

" New evidence," said his lordship, with an additional 
glow of red, visible even over his always red face, and his 
grey eyes sparkled with satisfaction — " new evidence ? Go 
on with it." 

The poor briefless young barrister sat down, crest-fallen. 
James Rafferty was called to the witness-table. A strange- 
looking boy presented himself, — one whom no one regarded 
with pleasure or comfort. He was quite unknown in the 
town or neighborhood, be said ; a fatherless and mother- 



328 FATHER COXVELL* 

less beggar-boy ; and he had been making his way into 
the town by the river-aide, late last night, when he heard 
angry voices approaching him on the path ; and being only 
a poor boy, and no one at his side, he ran and hid himself 
behind some furze-boshes. A young man and a young 
girl came up— he believed he ought to call her a young 
lady, from her dress, and from her " fine speech." She 
applied hard names to the young man; he did not re- 
member all the names — and what he subsequently beheld 
terrified him so much, that it was no wonder he should 
forget them ; but he did remember one of them ; the 
young girl called the young man her " desthroyer." 

The witness then saw the young man and the young 
woman scuffle together ; and then the former took up a 
stone, and struck the latter on the forehead, and he struck 
her again and again, until she fell dowp. And the young 
man went away, when the young woman had lain motion- 
less for some time ; and the boy crept out to look at her, 
and she was dead. He heard the man returning, and hid 
himself again. The man stood for a while over the corpse, 
then stooped down, raised it across his arms, and went 
away with it 

Witness concluded by saying, that he was so much 
frightened he was afraid to stir from his hiding-place, 
until the day began to break ; that then he ran, as well 
as he could, to the next farm-house, but was too weak to 
continue his way to the town, until he had got something 
to eat ; but that, as soon as he could, he did come in, and 
immediately told his story at the mayor's office. 

He was asked if he could point out the person he had 
seen committing this dreadful deed ; he answered that he 
thought he could, for the moon was high, and he had seen 
him plainly. The crier's rod was placed in his hand. He 
turned slowly round ; and as he touched with it the head 
of the prisoner, a fearful murmur ran through the crowded 
court-house. 

This was all like a loathsome dream to poor Edmund 
Fenneli, though he knew it to be reality. 

The judge on the bench was a man who, it was said, 
scarcely ever permitted one grain of mercy to be dropped 
into the scales of justice while he held the balance. He 
would bully the crimvnal who pleaded for compassion ; but 



FATHER CONNELL. 329 

above all, while a wretched fellow-creature trembled before 
him on the crumbling verge of eternity, he would be 
facetious, flashing some miserable pun into the face of the 
doomed man ; and then glancing round to note an approval 
of his faint witticism among his auditors. Sometimes he 
was called " Judge Bladderchops," or the " Puffing Judge ;" 
sometimes he was called the " Punning Judge ;" but oftener 
the " Hanging Judge." 

"Curran," said he, at a large dinnerparty, "is that hung 
beef before you?" "No," answered Curran, in his shrill, 
fife-like voice, "but let you only try it, and it soon will be." 

In fact he was the judge who had presided over the trial 
of Robert Emmett, and whose conduct and words on the 
occasion have, with the assistance of the poor young 
enthusiast's comments upon them, immortalised his lord- 
ship in a very peculiar way. 

This man charged the jury upon Edmund Fennell's triaL 
In that charge, there was not a word of merciful interpre- 
tation of circumstances in favor of the undefended and 
undefending youth before him. On the contrary, it much 
resembled a violent speech to evidence, by an attorney- 
general, upon an ez-officio prosecution. The jury retired 
to their room, with brows of which any one might interpret 
the meaning; stopped in just long enough to give the 
appearance of not being in an unseemly haste in deciding 
upon their verdict ; returned to their box, one by one ; 
took their seats slowly, and it seemed sorrowfully, after 
all their prejudice against the prisoner ; answered to their 
names, when called over to turn, by the proper officer in 
low and solemn voices ; and not even a breathing could 
be heard among the gazing and listening multitude, as the 
usual routine of words passed between them and the same 
individual : — 

"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed to your 
verdict?" 

"We have." 

" Who answers for you?" 

" Our foreman." 

" How say you, gentlemen of the jury — in the first count 
of the indictment, is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not 
guilbr?" 

"Guilty." 



380 FATHER ComfELL. 

And the answer of the foreman of the jury was given in 
a whisper so thin and wiry — 

" There was nought 
Between H and silence." 

And yet it was heard in the farthest corner of that crammed 
and suffocating halL 

" Look to him, jailor," immediately said the registrar of 
the court; and although these also were but words of 
course, and often carelessly uttered, they now seemed to 
be deeply felt by the person who spoke them, and broke 
upon the stilly pause around with the solemnity of a knell. 

Gasping his hands tightly, the miserable youth at the 
bar raised his blood-shot eyes upwards, and his white lips 
moved without sound ; then he seemed endeavoring to 
arrange his disorganized ideas. Several- times he pressed 
the lower parts of *the palms of his hands against his tem- 
ples, as if he believed that his brain was about to burst 
through them, and that he must thus try to keep it in its 
place. 

The officer of the court, who had just consigned him to 
the watchfulness of his jailor, now glanced back at the 
judge, and receiving his significant nod, again spoke : — 

"Prisoner at the bar, have you anything to say why 
sentence of death and execution should not be passed upon 
you? M 

" I have," answered the prisoner, speaking impressively, 
though in a low voice — " I have ; is this the time for me to 
say it ?" 

"It is." 

" My lord, I will not take up much of your time, I am 
not able to do so, if I wished to do so. My lord, to my 
amazement, and my utter consternation and dismay, I find 
myself, all within a few hours, arrested, committed, tried, 
and found guilty of a crime, which, upon any human creat- 
ure, I would not perpetrate, were it to purchase a place in 
Heaven for me. But of this— of this murder— oh, how 
innocent am 1 1 My lord, the Judge of us all, and high 
above us all, before whose throne I must speedily appear, 
witnesses, to his own mercy and compassion, how inno- 
cent!" 

"Prisoner," interrupted the Judge, gurgling his words 
through a mass of fat, and inflating his cheeks with his 



FATHER CONNELL. 331 

wheezing breath " Prisoner, you hare had a fair and im- 
partial trial, and you have been found guilty, by a jury of 
your fellow-citiztiis — an upright and conscientious jury; 
and this unsupported assertion of your innocence, against 
their decision, and against the clearest testimony, is only 
a useless occupation of the .time of the court." (Puff, puif, 
puff.) 

" My lord," resumed the prisoner, " I am sorry if what I 
have spoken was wrong. As well as I can recollect, I in- 
tended to say nothing calculated to offend the court, or the 
jury. I am bound to take it for granted that both have 
fairly discharged their duty." 

He bowed his head for a moment on his hands, then 
extending his arms, and turning his eyes upwards, suddenly 
cried out-— 

" The Almighty Maker never sent from his hands, upon 
this earth, a more perfect specimen of his work than you 
were, my own Helen ! And human body never held with- 
in it a tenderer, a more devoted heart than yours did ! 
Deep and eternal damnation be the doom of him who shed 
your precious blood I" 

There was a surpressed burst of grief amongst those who 
surrounded the evidence table ; but over all these symptoms 
of sudden emotion, old Gaby M'Neary's convulsive sobs 
were audible. 

The prisoner continued, with an impetuosity that noth- 
ing could interrupt — 

" And I am tolled that you have been murdered, and I 
have been convicted as your murderer! I — I, to whom 

Cgave your young love I I, to whom you gave your 
d in marriage 1 Yes, Helen, yes ! my wife, you were — " 
tears now burst from his hitherto dry eyes. " My wife ! the 
wife of my bosom ! my good, my young ! my beautiful 
bride! and my maiden bride too! Oh, God! oh, God! 
How little do they know, who call me your murderer, the 
bereavement of my wretched heart, at tne thought of your 
loss!" 

"Prisoner at the bar," again interrupted the judge, 
"you have uttered language, which out of respect to the 
afflicted father of the murdered young lady, cannot be per- 
mitted by the court. You have called her your wife." 

" Called her my wife ?" interrupted Edmund in his turn, 



8tt FATHER COKBBLL. 

as he stepped, almost jumped bade, "and does any one say 
she was not my wife r he continued fiercely, "who dares 
to say it ? Does any one of you all who crowd round about 
me here, to gratify your want of charity, by witnessing the 
dispair, and the agony of my young heart— does any one of 
you all dare to say it ?' From side to side of the crowd, 
and up and down from them to the galleries, and from the 
galleries to them again, his wild glances flew. 

" No !" answered a loud but yet broken voice, and Gaby 
IfNeary started up, turned round, and folly confronted 
the prisoner, while he frowned deeply, although his tears 
came. " No I I am her father, and I believe she was your 
wife— she told me so herself," he added, his voice giving 
way, as he suddenly dropped into his seat again. 

" God bless you, and thank you, sir !" cried Edmund. 
" God bless you!" 

The judge gave a greater puff than he had that day 
uttered. 

" Why have we not had evidence of this ?" he demanded. 

Edmund had again sunk his forehead upon his open 
hands ; he now slightly started, uncovered his nice, looked 
thoughtful for an instant, and his late impetuosity calmed 
down, replied to the bench in a quiet tone, while he bowed 
respectfully. 

" My lord, I could not — I would not have tendered evi- 
dence upon that point, if I had twenty lives to save ; for as 
your lordship knows, I could have proved it only by dis- 
closing the name of the clergyman who married me to my 
beloved Helen ; and you are also aware, my lord, that sucn 
a disclosure would subject him, by the law of the land, to a 
felon's punishment." 

All eyes were now fixed, with a very changed expression, 
upon the prisoner. The judge emitted a puff, which might 
be called the puff bewildered. Gaby M'Neary stood up a 
third time, contemplated his former friend with peculiar 
interest, and then, muttering something ejaculatory, which 
on this grave occasion we shall not farther describe, pound- 
ed his stick against the floor, and again sat down. 

" Is it the intention of the prisoner to occupy any further 
the time of the court?" demanded the judge. 

" Only for a few moments longer, my lord. Your lord- 
ship is about to pronounce the dread sentence of the law 



FATHER CONNELL 833 

upon me. I know it is a dreadful one, and jet I do not 
dread it. I accept it as boon, as a charity, and as such, 
thank you for it And I know it is a horrible thing to die 
a murderer's death upon the gibbet ; a very, very horrible 
thing ; but to me it will be a pleasing thing ; to me, the 
hopeless, and broken-hearted lad before you, it will prove 
a blessing not a punishment Were I to five on, it must be 
in utter misery, and in utter darkness of the heart ; for 
with her who is gone from me, the light of life has gone 
also. My lord, I await you sentence." 

Recapitulating the evidence, the judge drew from it most 
unquestionable proofs of the prisoner's guilt, and warned 
him that, in the desperate position in which he stood, it 
would much better become him to declare at once his 
abominable crime, than to persevere in groundless assertions 
of his innocence. That the murdered lady was the prison- 
er's wife, it was impossible to believe ; but if such were 
really the fact, why had not proof been given of it? and his 
lordship had asked the question before. Surely the proof 
were easily attainable. As to the reason assigned, why it 
had not been — namely, that the prisoner would not place in 
jeopardy the — his lordship supposed — popish priest, who, it 
was pretended, had performed the ceremony — that could 
not be a motive likely to influence an individual who had no 
hesitation in staining his soul with innocent blood. Much 
more was said, not, we hope, with the intention of making 
the sufferer writhe ; and at last came the sentence of the 
law — the judge hastily, and as if eagerly, proceeding to put 
on that silly thing, the melo-dramatic black-cap, before he 
pronounced it At the expiration of forty-eight hours, the 
prisoner was to be conveyed to the common place of 
execution, and there hanged by the neck until he was 
dead — 

" Hanged by the neck until you are dead," repeated a 
voice, in cautious whispers, somewhere near to Ed- 
mund. 

After which the prisoner's body was to be given for dis- 
section — 

" And your body to be given for dissection," continued 
his invisible tormentor — 

" And the Lord have mercy on your soul," ended his 
tfrdship— 



834 FATHER CONKSLL. 

* An' somebody else be ready to recave your sowl I M para- 
phrased the hissing whisperer. 

But simultaneously a thousand voices piously and fer- 
vently cried " amen/' to the judge's more merciful prayer. 



CHAPTER XLL 



With a kind of nightmare sensation, the sentenced Ned 
Fennell, having been re-conducted to his cell, beneath the 
court-house, seated himself on the miserable bed-stead 
which was in a nook of the miserable place. The jailor and 
a turnkey passed out of his dungeon, and locked the door, 
but he took no notice. They had asked him some ques- 
tions, he had returned them no answers. It was now deep 
darkness all around him ; he sat still and stirred not 
Bats came and walked about his feet ; he was vaguely con- 
scious of their being so near him, but he made no attempt 
to chase them away. And how long he remained in this 
motionless, feelingless, callous condition, he did not know, 
and he did not care to know. The door of his cell re- 
opened, and a turnkey, wearing a black mask, entered, a 
rushlight in his hand, and was followed by the Catholic 
clergyman, whose duty it was to prepare sentenced crim- 
inals for death ; and still the circumstance scarcely aroused 
him from his lethargy. 

The priest and he were left together. He gazed at his 
visiter, but only with a dull expression. The clergyman 
addressed him commiseratingly ; and Edmund seemed 
gradually to catch meaning from his words — seemed to 
comprehend the horrible past, and the terrible future. He 
sank on his knees and prayed. His companion followed his 
example, and prayed with him. A solemn view of the neces- 
sity of preparing for his death, now almost exclusively filled 
his soul; the judgment throne — the greatness, and the 
power, and the majesty of Him who sat upon it, came before 
him in a vision, as it were, and yet almost a palpable one. 

The priest and he still knelt and still prayed together. 
Then Edmund Fennell prayed by himself ; and then, hav 



rjunuB connell. 835 

lag signified his readiness to begin the confession of his 
sins, the clergyman sat on the bedstead, while he knelt be- 
side him. The confession was over ; the penitent now sat 
dose by his spiritual friend, and for some time, they so 
remained, hand in hand together. 

Presently the priest addressed to him soothing and con- 
soling words, inspiring the great hppe of a place of rest in 
another world, and Edmund, with a placid countenance, 
listened attentively; he could now thank God and his 
reverend comforter, for a great relief of heart. 

For some time there had been hasty steps passing and 
repassing outside the celL The conversation between the 
priest and Edmund began to assume a mixed character, 
partly worldly, and partly religious. The former learned 
from the latter, that he had not tasted food for thirty 
hours ; he started up, and knocked at the door of the dun- 
geon ; it was opened, and Father Connell appeared stand- 
ing without 

The instant Edmund beheld the old man, he bent his 
knee to the floor of his prison, and looked with a seeking 
earnestness into his protector's face. Neither of them 
wept at this meeting ; the cause of it " lay too deep for 
tears." Father Connell advanced very slowly to Edmund. 
Arriving close to the spot on which he knelt, the aged 
priest raised his hat, and stretched forward his right arm 
over the head of the suppliant, and looking upwards, 
prayed with great solemnity.' 

" May He, whose mercy is as unbounded as his power 
and his justice, have mercy and compassion on you !" 

Edmund Fennell kissed the hand that had been raised 
to Heaven for him. Father Connell gazed at him, filled 
with the woe that speaks not — Edmund broke the 
silence : — 

" Fear hot much for me, sir/' he said, in a calm though 
sorrowful voice ; "I am not guilty of the horrid act 
for which they have sentenced me to a dreadful 
death." 

The oJd man Stepped back, catching his breath. 

" Edmund Fennell," he said, " you are kneeling— is this 
truer 

" It is, my father," answered Edmund. 

He arose and spoke apart with his confessor. Father 

15 



336 FATHER COHHELL. 

Connell understood him, and watched them both with de* 
Touring eagerness. 

"Now, sir," resumed Edmund, addressing the young 
priest, and motioning towards the elder. 

"Sir," said the former, approaching Father Connell, "I 
have permission from my penitent to declare to you, that 
under the seal of confession, he has asserted his innocence 
of hand, act, or part in this murder, and of all knowledge 
of it, previous to his being accused of it" 

" Then let me hold you in my arms, my son," said Father 
Connell, " and praise the Lord with you." 

After embracing Edmund, they entered more into par- 
ticulars. The other clergyman was of their council Ed- 
mund, for the first time since he was thrown down and 
beaten by his captors, could now exercise the powers of his 
mind — his recollections, his judgment, his reasoning and 
comparing faculties; and he supplied to his two clerical 
friends statements which, but a few hours before, might 
have done him some good service. He mentioned the 
flitting appearance of Robin Costigan among the people on 
the high ground near the river ; together with the words 
which the old beggar had whispered into his ear. He also 
informed them that the same whispering voice had, more 
than once, been near him during his trial in the court-house 
—though of that fact he could not be quite sure, so con- 
fused was his brain on the occasion. He next gave an 
account of the boy who followed Robin Costigan, and 
whom he had himself seen, many years ago, in the shower 
of houses ; and though he had not since encountered the 
imp, until this very day, still he was convinced that it was 
the same boy, grown into somewhat matured years ; and 
here Edmund recollected poor Mary Cooney's description, 
not long ago, of the uninteresting youth : and he was con- 
vinced that it was the very same individual who had borne 
false testimony against him on his trial And lastly, 
Edmund, after noticing Costigan's threats of vengeance 
against him in the shower of houses, and in poor Nick 
M'Grath's bedroom, concluded by asserting his firm con- 
viction that the old ruffian was not only the murderer of 
his wife, but also the contriver of his (Edmund's) arrest 
and condemnation for the atrocious act. 

Father Connell, well recollecting the character of Robin 



FATHER CONNELL. 8S7 

Oostigan, gave credence to Ned Fennels assertions and 
statements. And that the sentenced lad had, on the faith 
of the confession by which he prepared his soul for death 
and judgment, persisted in declaring his innocence, now 
also recurred, with great force, to Father ConnelTs mind. 

The old gentleman seemed to ponder deeply, and most 
anxiously, for some moments. He suddenly arose from his 
seat, and moved rapidly to and fro within the narrow 
confines of the cell, his eyes winking quickly, and seeing 
nothing, to the often named accompaniment of the work- 
ing of his fingers. He passed and repassed the clergy- 
man and Ned Fennell, without seeming to notice the 
presence of either. As suddenly as he had started, 
almost jumped up, from the bedstead, he now stopped 
short before the door of the dungeon, and with his 
clenched knuckles gave one loud, authoritative knock 
against it By the turnkey, who was stationed without, 
it was quickly opened. Not facing round to greet the 
convict, it was nearly in a race that he gained the outer 
prison-door, and emerged into the street He walked 
along at his utmost speed, breathing shortly and in puffs, 
as much from eagerness as from haste. Soon turning his 
face to a door some little distance from the prison, he 
seized its knocker, and with it gave three blows that mode 
the neighborhood ring and echo again. The instant his 
summons was answered he pushed forward, without 
putting a single question to the wondering servant, 
mounted a flight of stairs before him, getting up two 
steps at a time, with almost the springyness of youth ; 
flung open a door on the landing-place, and, without 
pause or apology, broke into a drawing-room, in which 
was seated a florid and very handsome little gentleman, 
surrounded by his family, to whom he was reading aloud. 
But, without any wish for stage effect, or of surprise, to 
the reader, it seems the more convenient plan now, to go 
back to Edmund FennelTs prison, before relating the old 
priest's further proceedings. 

Scarcely had Father Oonnell left Edmund and his con- 
fessor alone, than another visiter entered the celL It was 
Nelly Carty. Her step, manner and face, showed earnest- 
ness and anxiety. When she had passed the sentinel turn- 
key at the door, she suddenly turned round, and, with a 



888 FATHER cororBLL. 

scrutinizing frown, looked at him from head to foot ; but 
not seeming to gain anything by her investigation, she 
continued her hasty way close to the bedstead, upon which 
Edmund Fennell and his priest were sitting. 

Having saluted them both, she again looked behind her, 
as if to note whether the door had been shut and secured. 
It had ; and she addressed Edmund Fennell, in a very low 
whisper — 

"You'll be wontherin' what brings me here, Masther Ned. 
It's great business, an' many kinds of business, that brings 
me here. I want to make inquiries of you," here she sunk 
her whisper even still lower — "I want to make demand of 
you, if a man wid a bit of ould black felt over his face, an* 
holes in id fur his two eyes an' his mouth, is one of the 
jailors that comes in an' out to you, in this place?" 

Edmund, surprised at her appearance, and her whole 
demeanor, and particularly at this question, answered that 
he could not distinctly tell whether such was the fact. 
The clergyman, however, clearly recollected that it was 
by a person so disguised he had been ushered into the 
prisoner. 

"But," he resumed, "I did not suppose him to be a 
regular turnkey ; from my former knowledge of the cus- 
toms of the prison, I believed him to be a very different 
officiaL , ' 

" And your Biverince was in the right," said Nelly Carty 
ominously nodding to him. 

"My executioner," said Edmund Fennell, changing 
color. 

" He thinks as much," continued Nelly Carty, " bud he 
may be mistaken." 

"Woman, what do you mean?" said poor Edmund, 
trembling with the hope which these words seemed indi- 
rectly to convey. 

" Do not dare," said the priest, sternly, " to utter a syl- 
lable that may unfoundedly draw the mind of my penitent, 
from the blessed prospect of a speedy participation in the 
joys of Heaven." 

" I won't, your Biverince ; an' yet, 111 answer your ques- 
tion, Masther Ned. Hearken to me. Though I owe you 
no good will, for turning from Mary Oooney to another, I 
have heart enough left in my body, to relieve your mind 



FATHER CONNELL. 889 

bom the terrible thought that is in it at present ; from the 
fear of death on the gallows. Listen to me well, I say. 
First of all, I can prove to the faces of the foolish judge 
and jury, who. brought you in guilty of your own wife's 
inurther this bless'd day — I can prove that it was not 
your wife's blood at all, nor a lock ov your wife's hair at 
all, that was found close by the river-side ; and is that 
news fur you, Masther Ned Fennell ?" 

Edmund could only clasp his hands, and gape, and gasp 
for breath. The priest spoke for him. 

" News, indeed, if true ; but how can you prove it ?" 

" By a plain story, your Riverince, that I will give my 
oath to, an' that another body, well known to Masther Ned, 
one Masther Tom Naddy, will give his oath to — and that 
another body too, will give her oath to— an' now I mane 
Mary — yes, my own poor Mary ! — it was you they left for 
dead by the river-side — it was you Masther Ned Fennell 
murthered, if he murthered any one, though youTJ soon 
be well enough alive, plase God, to tell them what your- 
self knows about the matther ! An' isn't that another sort 
of good news for you, Masther Ned?" 

But Edmund did not answer ; he had drooped his head 
upon the priest's shoulder. The fear of death had not 
unmanned him ; the sudden reflux of hope now did. 

Nelly Carty, at the clergyman's instance, called at the 
door for wine and water, and other refreshments, and 
Edmund partook of them and quickly recovered. Nelly 
Carty was then urged to be more explicit, and she re- 
sumed. 

She told of her meeting with Costigan, on the high-road, 
the previous night ; of her hunting him off the road, down 
towards the river-side ; of her then racing into the town, 
to find Mary Cooney, and keep her out of his way ; of her 
failure in this intention, by Mary's absence from Father 
Gonnell's house ; of a resumed and lengthened search after 
the poor girl ; of wandering here and there almost the 
whole night; of her taking the path by the river-side 
about an hour before daybreak ; and of there discovering 
the body of Mary, m,irdered, she believed, at the first 
glance, by Robin Costigan. 

" Yes !" the half-wild woman went on, " the bright blessed 
moon shone down upon her, and showed her to me stiff an 1 



840 FATHER CON2TSLL. 

I 
cowld, an 9 covered wid her own blood — and her own blood I 

was all round about her. Well, I knelt down in that blood I 

— in my own child's blood — ay, ye may start an' look at 
me, but my own colleen she is, an' I'll prove that foment 
ye, along wid all the rest — so, in her blood I knelt down — 
look, 'tis on my clothes yet ; an' look here too." She held 
wide asunder the heavy grey locks on her forehead, and 
showed upon it a cross, rudely marked — " here is some of 
id agen — I made that with it here, an' then I swore an 
oath, that day or night I would not sleep nor stand still, 
nor ate nor dhrink until I could find out the murtherer ov 
my darlin', and dhrag him to the gallows' foot! An' 
though it turned out that he did not murther her, as he 
bid fair to do— I'll do it yet !" she muttered. " 111 keep 
that oath yet 

"A man come towards me in the moonshine, runnin' 
hard, an' whin I saw him first I thought it might be Robin 
Oostigan, comin' back to hide his work, an' I jumped up 
on my feet, an' sarched fur the knife. Bud it was only 
Tom Naddy, racing from Gaby M'Neary's house, to look 
either his young misthress, as he tould me, on a promise 
he gave her whin her father turned her out that night ; 
bud he was hours too late, he said, by rason that his ould 
masther kep him employed, a'most the livelong night, goin' 
up an' down stairs, to his bed-room, an' back agen. 

" Tom Naddy stood by me side, whisperin' ; he was ter- 
ribly frightened at the sight under his eves, an' he threm- 
bled and shook ; an' the grief sthruck him too, an' as I 
cried down the bitther tears, he cried along wid me ; he 
tould me he loved Mary— och, who didn't ! I asked him 
to help me an' carry her corpse away, an' hide it frum 
Robin Costigan, until we could Dury id in Christian ground. 
He said he would, if I'd let him look round about us fur 
his own poor young misthress, who, he had fears, was mur- 
thered, too. I b'lieved the same thing, bud it throubled me 
little — how could it 1 He came back to me, afther goin' up 
every risin' ground, an' lookin' over every path, bud findin' 
no trace of the person he wanted to see ; bud, in a little 
hollow on the lull side, over the river, there was a cloak 
of hers, an' a bonnet, an' bundle. So he said no more 
about her fur that time, bud he stooped down to help me 
to lift the corpse, an' I went to the feet, an' he went to the 



FATHER C0NN2LL. 84] 

bead , an 9 as fie stooped over her, Tom Naddy gave a little 
start, an' ink off his hat, an' put. his ear close to the spot 
over her heart, an 9 tuk id away agen, an' held id close agen. 

" 'Torn Naddy,' I said, 'what is your mainin'? Mother 
o' Heaven 1 what is your mainin T 

" * This girl isn't dead,' he said, jumping up, ' come here 
an' feel her heart/ 

" I screeched out, until the river banks, up an' down fur 
miles, hard me I I ran to my darlin's head. I knelt agen, 
and bent down— oh, by the blessed light ! a little, sorrowful 
sigh, like, stole out from between her lips, as my cheek 
touched them. Tom Naddy flew to the river, and cum back 
wid water in his hat, an' we threw id upon her face, and we 
put some dhrops of id into her mouth, an' the life gave 
more an' more signs, all over her. Yis ! the life, the life ! 
my darlin' wasn't murthered ! My darlin' was not dead ! 
Wasn't gone for ever frum me ! 

" I don't know what I said or did — bud I lost my senses, 
I b'lieve, fur a while. Bud Tom Naddy made me come back 
to myself, an' bring to mind that now, in earnest, we ought 
to take her an' hide her frum Bobin Costigan ; and so we 
did. 

" Nigh at hand, undher the river's bank, there was a little 
boat, that Gaby M'Neary and his daughter used to take 
their pleasure in, whin the summer evenins 'ud be fine ; 
and Tom Naddv had the kay of the chain that made the 
little boat fast by the bank, an' he knew where the oars 
were hid ; an' we soon laid my darlin' in the bottom ov the 
little boat, an' put the river between her an' Bobin Costigan. 
An' at the other side ov the river, where the weir crosses 
it, there is a mill — a very high, tall mill, six lofts high, a 
flour-mill ; an' the miller's wife an' myself were related, an' 
we used to be friends in the pleasant days of my girlhood, 
long ago, afore I fell into sin, an' lost every friend I had, 
along wid everything else, barrin' the sorrow an' the shame 
that the sin brought ; bud she spakes to me vet, now 
and then, an' gives me a handful of pyaties, like the other 
good neighbors ; an' so we knocked at the mill-dour, and 
Anty Murphy got up — that's my gossip's name — whin I 
tould her my story, every word, and that I wanted to hide 
my child frum Bobin Costigan ; an' she asked her husband, 
an' he let us ; an' then, Tom Naddy and I, and Anty Mur- 



842 FATHER CONNELL. 

phy^s good man, we all took Mary oat ov the boat, an' we 
carried her up all the step-laddhers, over all the shaky lofts, 
one afther another, until we had her in the top loft ov all ; 
an' there we made her a little bed, an* Anty helped me to 
wash an' to dhress the wounds on her poor head ; an' I sat 
down, to be my darlin's nurse ; an' they all swore to me 
that no livin' crature bud myself should know that Mary 
was there, or was alive, or what had become of her, until I 
could quit her side, an' go my own way, to see her rightified, 
and to keep her frum harum, for the fnthure. An' the 
miller promised that he would watch the mill-dour well, an 9 
keep off every sthranger ; an that he would put a great, big 
wicked dog, at the feet ov the first step-lader, so that the 
black devil himself, in Robin Costigan's shape, couldn't go 
up a step ov it, widout gettin' lave. 

" My darlin' was now sleepin' soft, an' Tom Naddy an' I 
had a word about his poor young misthress ; an' afther 
tellin' him to the best of my knowledge where to go look 
fur her, he gave one look at. Mary, an' went his ways, to go 
in quest of her. 

" The moon now began to go down in the sky, to make 
room fur the mornin' that was oomin' in her place ; an' I 
was sittin' by my child's head, my heart full ov blessed hope, 
an' my eyes fixed on her face. She moaned mournfully, 
an' stirred, an' dhrew a long, long breath, an' then woke, 
an' opened her eyes, like the dawn ov the day on me, an' 
knew me— knew me the first look ! Bud I wouldn't let her 
spake a word, nor stir a fut nor a hand. No, I woudn't 
even spake a word to her myself ; only I knelt down, an' I 
kissed her lips an' her cheeks, an' her poor sore head, over 
an' over ; an' gave her something good fur her to dhrink, 
that my cousin left to my hand ; an' thin Mary soon shut 
her beautiful eyes agen, an' fell into another doze. 

" Fur hours that she slept I still watched her, bud at 
last stole to a little window in the gable of the mill, to open 
it, an' give her some air ; for the sun began to shine 
sthrong upon the slates above our heads, an' it was very hot 
on the little ould loft. So I opened the window, an' looked 
across the river, towards the spot where we found my 
darlin'. Near that spot, undher the high bank, there was a 
man standin' in the shallow wather, like as if he was hidin'. 
I thought he looked up at the mill, an' thin hard at me. I 



FATHER CONNELL. 848 

dhrew back, bud only so as that I could still look at him. 
An' long an' well I looked ; bud that man was not Robin 
Costigan. Bnd I soon knew who he was. He turned the 
side ot his face to me, ov a sudden, an' thin I knew him. 
He used to be a great crony of Robin's, an' was one of his 
own picked men. I wonthered very much to see him there. 
1 still looked over to him, an' came back close to the open 
window. He cast his eyes up agen an' knew me in his turn, 
an' beckoned hard an' fast to me. I went quite away from 
the window, an' my heart sunk down widin me, an' I was 
terribly afeard. It came into my mind that Robin Costi- 
gan had found out, by manes that no one else bud himself 
could, that my poor Mary was alive still, an' had sent this 
nan to watch her fur him — an' oh, I then eyed her asleep 
afore me, an' I wrung my hands, an' I cried, widout sayin' 
a word, or makin' a sound, till I thought the heart 'ud 
burst into bits in my body. 

" A little time afther, my cousin Anty came up the step* 
laddher, to tell me that a man wanted to see me, outside 
the mill-dour, an' wouldn't go away widout seein' me, bud 
for no harum, she thought, only fur somethin' very sarious ; 
fur he said there was life an' death in id — ay, twenty lives 
an' deaths in id. I gave her a pictur, as well as I could, 
of the ould robber — it wasn't him. I went to the window 
agin — the man I saw afore, across the river, wasn't there 
now — more betoken, Anty tould me that the man at the 
mill-dour cum across the weir, to ask fur me ; an' afther 
a moment's more thought on the head ov it, I left Anty to 
watch my darlin', an' went down to meet Dennis Keegan, 
the wickedest comrade that Robin Costigan ever had ; 
bud I didn't find him so wicked now. A change was upon 
him. 

" Along wid all the rest that ever knew her or saw her, 
Molocth had the love on his heart for my poor Mary, ever 
since she was a weeny child ; an' the spilhn' of her blood 
changed his heart an his mind intirely agen Robin Costi- 
gan — ay, an' agen Robin Costigan's bad ways, an' his own 
bad ways ; an' he made a vow to quit him an' them. An' 
larnin' frum Robin that he meant to send him, an' the 
others that came to help him in murthering poor Mary, far 
away, an' stay alone himself near the spot where she was 
left for dead, the thought came upon Molocth that Costi* 



544 FATHBL COHHKLL. 

gan wanted to watch her, an 9 be sore that not a spark of 
the life stayed in her, or if it did, to rise his hand to her 
agen ; and for this raison, he turned back from the others, 
to watch the ould robber, in his torn. Another thing made 
him curious. He saw Oostigan takin' the ould hat from 
the Babby's head afore they parted, an 9 then he stole on 
him, where he was sittin' a one aide, cuttin' the ould hat 
into the shape of a skibbeah's mask, an 9 at this he obsarved 
him closer an* closer. 

" An 9 whin Dinnis Keegan come back to the river-side, 
he saw him standin 9 near the place where they had left 
poor Mary — bud she wasn't to be seen then. An 9 after- 
wards, he saw him hidin 9 until people come up in the grey 
ot the dawn, an 9 gathered round the bloody spot ; and 
then he saw all about you, Masther Edmund, an 9 the part 
Costigan took in id. The people dhragged you to the 
town, and Costigan was wid them still ; and still Dennis 
followed them an 9 him. Whin they all come into the town, 
great was his wonder to see his ould Masther quit the 
crowd, an 9 put on his sMbbeah's mask, in a lane, foment 
the jail-dour ; an 9 thin cross over to the dour, an 9 knock at 
it, an 9 go in. Bud he soon larned the manin* ov that turn 
of ould Robin's. It was well known that there was no 
hangman in town, to do the work that he blieved would 
soon be ready on Gallows Green ; the sheriffs were in a 
great pucker, fur fear they'd be forced to do id thimselves ; 
an 9 so, out of the ould love he bears you, Masther Edmund, 
an 9 moreover, to hide himself for a little while, in the last 
place in the world, where people 9 ud come to look fur him, 
an 9 fur that raison, in the best place, Robin Costigan is un- 
dher one roof wid you to-night 99 

Many had been the interruptions on the part of Edmund 
and the clergyman, to this narration of Nelly Carty ; and 
now Edmund broke out, shuddering, in exclamations of 
horror, not yet unmixed with fear even. He also expressed 
great surprise at the last circumstance mentioned by the 
potato-beggar. 

" It is indeed very strange, 99 said the clergyman, " but 
not so very unusual To my own recollection, it has hap- 
pened more than once before, that a man in a black mask 
has offered himself at the jail-door, as executioner for an 
approaching event ; and after stipulating that his name 



PATHBR CONNELL. 845 

flhonld not be asked, and that to guard against public ex- 
posure, he should wear his mask till the matter was ended, 
his proffered services have been accepted ; and after the 
affair, and after receiving a heavy fee, ne has gone abroad 
into the world again, no one knowing anything more about 
him." 

The cell-door was here again opened, and Father Connell 
re-entered in great and agitated haste, followed by our 
smiling, handsome little gentleman. A small table being 
provided, the latter sat down to it, deliberately put on his 
spectacles, and drew from his pocket, pens, an ink-bottle, 
and very professional paper, smiling all the while most 
kindly and complacently. In fact, he was an attorney, a 
great friend of Father Connell, and he had come under the 
old priest's guidance to make notes from Edmund Fen- 
nell's own declarations, for a memorial, to be presented to 
the Lord Lieutenant, praying a respite of Edmund's sen- 
tence, beyond the forty-eight hours specified by the M hang- 
ing judge," to enable the lad to establish his innocence. 

The powerful additions made to Edmund's case, since 
Father Connell had left the prison, were now heard with 
great joy by the old clergyman, and with great satisfaction 
by the attorney. Father Connell even went so far as to 
presume that they were sufficient to procure Edmund's 
immediate liberation, without having recourse to the me- 
morial at all 

But the smiling solicitor shook his head. They supplied 
only additional reasons, he said, why the memorial should 
be proceeded with ; they made it stronger, and greatly in- 
creased the chance of its success. Yet, strong as they 
were, they did not afford such legal and palpable proof of 
Edmund's innocence, as to authorize the local authorities - 
not to proceed in the execution of the law's sentence. Be- 
sides, he whispered to the two clergymen, that the time 
was now perilously short ; and accidents might happen on 
the road ; or the Lord Lieutenant might not at once be 
seen. And in fact, he concluded, the attempt to murder 
Mary Cooney did not disprove the evidence on the trial 
that Edmund had murdered Helen M'Neary; that lady 
must be forthcoming, in order to have the fact demon* 
strated, and therefore the memorial ought to be prepared, 
and forwarded with ail despatch. 



846 FATHER CONNVLL. 

"The young lady is alive, an' I hope well, 9 * here ob« 
served Nelly Carty in a whisper to Father Connell, " one 
towld me as much, senee I sent Tom Naddy to look for 
her ; but God knows whin Tom can have her to the fore ; 
an 9 for that raison, your riverince, let the attorney begin 
his w^itin\ ,, 

Fully convinced, and now more anxious than ever, 
Father Connell urged his friend to complete his task. 
Poor Edmund observed the demur among them aH, and 
again chanced color. The attorney did not take a long 
time to finisn his notes. Father Connell and he were then 
hastily leaving the cell — the former almost dragging out 
his methodical friend. So earnest was his hurry, that he 
crossed the threshold without taking leave of Edmund 
FennelL 

"Will you not give me your blessing, sir, before you 
go?" said Edmund. 

Father Connell paused, and turned round. Edmund 
was upon his knees. He hastened to him, and assumed 
the same position. 

" Kneel down, kneel down/' he said, slowly and impres- 
sively motioning to the other clergyman, to his professional 
friend, and also to Nelly Carty, who remained in the most 
distant corner of the cell, " and kneel down," he continued 
to the stern-looking man who had opened the dungeon 
door for his departure, and who now stood upon its 
threshold. He was obeyed by alL He had not spoken 
loudly to them, but there was a patriarchal authority in 
his low-toned command, and so all knelt. Then he laid 
his hat beside him on the floor, strained his eyes upward, 
and stretched his arms to their full length above his head. 
And he prayed in the same suppressed inward voice 
in which ne had issued his command to those around 
him. 

"Lord of justice and of mercy, mercifully hear our 
humble supplications this night! If it be your holy will 
to take this boy out of the world, even now, in the vigor 
of his first youth ; grant to him, we beseech thee, that he 
may be enabled to prepare for meeting Thee face to face—' 
Thee his august and Heavenly judge ! 

He placed the palms of his hands on Edmund's bowed 
head, as he continued, " the blessing of God be upon you, 



FATHER CONKBLL. 84 1 

tad with you, my child, amen ;" and the amen echoed by 
those who knelt around, if not loud, was heartfelt 

Without rising from his place, the ancient priest allow- 
ed his hands to fall on the shoulders of him for whom he 
prayed, and he laid his cheek close to that of the sen- 
tenced prisoner. For a little while he remained silently 
thus, and the lookers-on could perceive that he wrestled 
almost till he shook, with his strong sorrow. At length 
he suddenly arose ; three times made with his open hand 
the sign of the cross over his adopted son, and again ca- 
ressing him cheek to cheek, whispered in his ear — 

" Now God be with you, Neddy, my poor child — God be 
with you !" and before Edmund could command words to 
express his feelings, Father Connell had hastened with his 
professional friend to the remote outside door of the prison, 
commanding the turnkey, who was in attendance, to follow 
and open it for him. 

In the mean time the head jailor, or governor of the 
dreary abode, appeared at Edmund's cell door. 

" What is this, he asked, "long past prison hours and 
strangers yet in the prison ? I beg vour pardon, sir," he 
continued, turning to Edmund's confessor, " I could not 
mean you — you are at liberty to remain as long as he and 
you like with the poor young gentleman ; but— come here, 
friend Mask 1" he went on, calling through the open door 
up the passage which crossed it, " come here and put this 
stranger out of the jaiL" 

The person addressed entered from the darkness with- 
out, like a summoned familiar — "Remove her from the 
cell," continued the governor, pointing to Nelly Oarty. 

"Hell niver do that," answered the potato-beggar — 
" but do you lock the cell dour well, Misther Jailor, an' 
mind what I'm goin' to say !" her directions were instantly 
obeyed ; she flew at the man in the mask, and stuck in him 
like a wild cat ; he struggled hard with her ; but she suc- 
ceeded in tearing off me disguise from his face, as she 
shrieked out — "look at him now, an 9 well! — this is the 
man that spilt the blood by the river-side last night- 
blood that Master. Edmund Fennell never stained his 
hands in — never had to do with — and that m prove ! m 

Srove ! — and this fe the man that thought to rob ould 
Tick M*Grath's house a little while ago, an' thought to 



348 FATHKB COffJTELL. 

set it o' fire — saize him an' hould him fast, Misther Jailor I 
hould him fast, or a near crony of his will whip him off 
from you, while you're not dhraming about it ! he broke 
this jail afore now, when ye thought ye had him safe for 
the gallows, for stealing Tom Hefferman's cow — ay, an 9 
after ye thought that ye hanged him well, for stealing the 
Widdy Murphy's horse 1 hould him fast, Misther Jailor ! 
— good night, Robin," she added — "111 meet you at the 
gallows' fat agen, plase God." 



CHAPTER XLIL 



Father Connell and the solicitor walked away from the 
prison, towards the house of the latter, the old priest hold- 
ing his head very high, and clawing his friend's arm, upon 
which he leaned, at a great rate. To many questions from 
his companion, he remained quite silent — in fact he did not 
hear them. Being however closely pressed, by repeated 
queries, as to the messenger he intended to send to Dublin, 
with the memorial, and having at length heard and under- 
stood what was demanded of him, he replied that he would 
take charge of it thither himself. Into the hands of no 
other living creature, would he intrust it There was no 
other living creature loved Neddy Fennell so well, and no 
other could so well perform the necessary duties required 
by the exigencies of the case. 

The attorney pondered, and came to the conclusion, that 
his venerable companion was right. They arrived at the 
attorney's house, and entered his office. Although our 
good-humored, and placid friend knew perfectly well that 
expedition was now of all things necessary, yet were his 
habits of systematic proceeding not to be overturned. He 
sat down to make a fair draft of the memorial, with all his 
usual precision and deliberation. He arranged his facts 
methodically; selected his words carefully; duly and slowly 
read over his rough draft, now thus amended, measured a 
margin on the paper for his second draft, and determined 
'stance that was to be observed between its lines, as 



FATHER CONNELL. 349 

if the human life at stake depended upon the technical 
correctness of the document 

All this while our poor Father Connell was in 9 fever of 
anxiety. His professional friend had provided him with 
an arm-chair, and smiling most imperturbably, requested 
him to occupy it But the old man could not sit stilL He 
would start up and pace about ; glance eagerly at the slow 
though sure, progress of the attorney ; drop sitting for 
while ; again start up ; try to look at some good prints, 
which were upon the walls of the apartment ; start away 
from them, and more hastily than before, pace about in 
every direction ; glance again and again at the writer at 
the desk, and force himself barely to suppress exclama- 
tions of impatience to be gone. But it was beyond the 
eleventh hour of the nght, before he at length placed the 
important paper in the side-pocket of his jock-coat 

"Now how do you intend to travel, Father Connell?" 
asked his friend. 

This point had not previously occurred to our parish 
priest, in his thoughtful abstractions, although more im- 
portant ones had. He paused a moment, and answered — 
" On horseback — it was on horseback he always journeyed, 
and he was a good horseman." 

"Very true, sir ; every one knows that ; but I fear your 
sedate bay mare would find an uninterrupted journey of 
sixty Irish miles, and necessarily a hasty journey too, be- 
yond her powers of performance." 

"And I believe so," muttered Father Connell in a di- 
lemma. 

" You must take a post-chaise, sir," continued the attor- 
ney ; " there is no stage-coach, nor mail-coach to set 
out from this town until to-morrow— a post-chaise it must 
be." 

The old priest assented, and they parted. There were 
now little more than thirty-six hours left, for going to 
Dublin, for presenting the memorial, and for coming back ; 
and, the distance, going and coming, was one hundred and 
twenty long Irish miles. The inn where Father Connell 
should engage a post-chaise, was on his way to his own 
house. 'When he reached it, its doors were closed, and no 
lights to be seen in its windows. Father Connell knocked 
loudly ; ho was not answered. Again, and again, and 



850 FATHER COVNBLL. 

again ; the same result He hurried into the middle of 
the street, and gazed eagerly towards the black windows, 
for a gleam of a light ; no such thing was to be seen ; he 
regained the door, and listened with bent head, to catch 
the sound of a footstep within the house ; no such thing 
was to be heard. Knock, knock, knock ; silence. Often 
and often did he pray to God to grant him patience, and 
to strengthen him. Nearly one whole precious hour thus 
wore away ; and all the while, it rained heavily upon 
his fevered and heated body. At length, in answer to a 
tremendous assault of his heels upon the door, a voice 
was heard speaking within, and calling on others, in no 
very gentle accents, to stir themselves and get up. Father 
Oonnell ceased knocking, and awaited the opening of the 
door. But the loud voice within ceased too ; and once 
more there was dead silence, and the door was not opened. 
All the tired inmates of the inn were, in fact, in their first 
sound sleep of the night. Our priest had nothing for it 
but go to his old word over again, which, indeed, he did, 
to the utmost of his strength and power. 

A window was thrown up, a bitter curse flung at him, 
and a sleeping growling voice demanded — " Why the devil 
he made such a racket at that hour?" 

In a tone of absolute entreaty, nay, humility, Father 
Connell made his business known. He was answered that 
no post-chaise could be had at such an unseasonable hour 
of the night ; and the speaker wondered exceedingly, in 
his very heart and soul, now any one could even think of 
such a thing ; the horses had all come home late, tired 
from the road ; and* the post-boys had all gone to their 
homes and their beds, long ago, and it was a shame, and 
a " burnin' " shame, to disturb honest people, in the dead 
of night, in such manner ; and such a night too- -cold, 
and blowing, and pelting rain — it was a scandalous shame. 

" I beseech and pray of you, for the love of Heaven," 
said Father Oonnell, " do not refuse me-— it is a matter of 
life and death— do not refuse, and may God reward you!* 

A petitioner is seldom thought much of. He was told 
that he ought) to be in his bed, instead of being but in the 
rain, on a dark piercing night, saying his prayers in the 
middle of the street. 

"Get me a post-chaise at once, I command you l w theoM 



FATHER CONNKLL. 851 

man now cried out, stung perhaps by sarcasm, while he 
was tormented by the delay. 

The speaker's tone immediately changed. Inquiry was 
made who wanted the vehicle? Father Connell gave his 
name. Many and profuse apologies followed. The speaker 
disappeared ; in a little time, the landlord and the waiter 
opened the door, and a promise was given that the best 
post-chaise in the establishment should be at the priest's 
door, in a few moments. 

The priest made inquiries as to the probable amount of 
the expenses of a journey to Dublin and back again. He 
learned, in reply, that, by post-chaise conveyance, they 
would amount nearly to twelve or thirteen pounds. He 
was astounded. Ever since he had become a parish-priest, 
indeed, during his whole long life, so large a sum, belong- 
ing to himself, had not once been in his possession. He 
thrust his hands into his pockets ; they contained a few 
shillings ; and he hastened home in dismay, to search the 
little quaint-looking old desk in his bed-room, full of sad 
misgivings that his quest would be profitless. 

His housekeeper, who, on his return from the country, 
that evening, was the first to acquaint him of the calamity 
that had occurred, now met him with eyes swollen and 
blood-shot from crying all the day and night ; and her air 
of self-importance was quite forgotton, as (the big tears 
running in a continuous stream down her unfeminine face) 
she looked into the haggard and care-worn countenance of 
her old master. 

"Yes, my poor Peggy," he said, endeavoring to gulp 
down the sorrow, which, in spite of his utmost efforts, 
began, at this sight, to master him : — " yes, my poor Peggy, 
you loved the boy as I loved him, and your heart is full as 
well as my own — " he pressed the housekeeper's rough 
hands in his, while, for the first time that night, the tears 
ran from his own old eyes, as they encountered hers. But 
very shortly he recovered and re-manned himself. 

By his directions, the housekeeper followed him into his 
bedroom. Here he acquainted her with the almost estab- 
lished fact of Ned FennelTs innocence ; and how the poor 
woman now again wept, but triumphantly ! It had been, 
too, her own firm belief, all through, notwithstanding the 
decided opinions to the contrary, pronounced by afi the 



862 FATHER CONNELL. 

comforters who had visited her during the day and night* 
and will she not be allowed a little egotistical exultation on 
that account also ? 

She entered fully into the spirit of the aged clergyman, 
regarding his present expedition ; and gleams of hope 
began to break in upon her despairing griei So, while the 
priest unlocked and searched his desk, Molly busied her- 
self in packing up a change of attire for him ; but she could 
barely refrain, even in his and her distress, from giving 
vent, while doing so, to her customary remarks on his ex- 
travagance, as she surveyed the few inner garments, most 
of them patched, and re-patched, which constituted his 

E resent stock. She did refrain, however, as she glanced at 
is changed face and shivering frame ; and oh, often and 
often, to the end of her life afterwards, had Mrs. Molloy to 
bless God that she had done so, and that her whole conduct 
and speech had been studiously, and indeed unusually 
respectful to the old gentleman, on this sad eve of their 
parting. 

Father Connell rummaged his sarcophagus. He alighted 
upon a parcel well wrapped up, and secured with twine. 
It certainly contained money, and it was weighty too. But 
there was a label upon it, in his own handwriting, which 
declared — 

" This money belongs to the charity school — £50." 

We have seen Father Connell at something like his pres- 
ent occupation, before now. Upon that occasion he did 
trespass, to the extent of a few shillings, upon a fund, over 
which he had willed himself to have no control ; and having 
found some difficulty in quickly restoring the trifle then 
abstracted from it, he had made a solemn vow never again 
to be guilty of a like peculation. So this parcel was put 
aside. He found another, a similar one, tied up with equal 
care, but it was labelled too— 

" This money belongs to the poor of the parish— £11" 

A third, and it announced — 

M This money belongs to Mary Cooney — given to me, for 
her personal wants and necessities by Neddy FennelL" 

The future probable lot of the poor beggar-girl struck 
upon his mind, and this parcel also quickly fell from his hand. 

He took between his finger and thumb the ring of a very 
little drawer, cm which was written — 



FATHER CONNELL. S68 

"This contains my own money.** 

He pulled the drawer open ; within it were thirteen shil- 
lings in silver, and a few halfpence. 

He sighed and looked very sorrowfully at his little 
drawer ; counted the silver over and over again ; raised up 
and laid down the money for the school, and the money 
for the poor, and the money for Mary Cooney ; and then 
he walked rapidly lengthways and crossways through his 
little bedchamber. 

The post-chaise rattled at the outer door. He returned 
to Ins desk ; a second time took up the three parcels, one 
after the other, a second time put them down, and bent his 
head almost in despair. His housekeeper had left the 
apartment without his observation. He now felt her pon- 
derous hand upon his arm. She drew him to a small table 
to one side, and emptied thereon the stocking, in which 
she had stored the savings of her whole life, and addressed 
him — 

" God help you, fur a poor fool of a man," she was going 
to say, but she checked herself, and proceeded in an 
amended form — " God help you, fur a charitable creature 
ov a man, an' how could you have money, an' all the world 
dhragging id from you ? Take that, an' use id, and spend 
id to save my poor warm-hearted boy — him that Fd give 
the blood frum my veins to save, not to talk o' money : 
take id, in the name ov God ; an' may he keep you, an' 
guard you, an* prosper you, in your journey !" 

Father Connell looked at his housekeeper in surprise and 
admiration. He paused ; she urged him more and more. 

" P©ggy> P<*ggy>" he answered, " I will take your money, 
then ; and if you are not paid it back, Peggy, in this world 
— if anything should happen to me upon the road, going 
or returning, Peggy — it will be a store for you, multiplied 
ten times tenfold, in a better world. May my blessing, 
Peggy, and the blessing of the Lord, be with you and 
about you." 

The stocking had contained more than Father Conneh 
deemed necessary for his expedition. He entered on a slip 
of paper the exact sum he believed he should want, mark- 
ing it as borrowed from Mrs. Molloy ; placed this docket 
in his drawer, appropriated the silver the drawer held, and 
closed his desk. 



854 FATHER CONKBLL. 

As he descended the stairs, towards the post-chaise, Mrs. 
Molloy again encountered him. 

" You're lookin' very sick intirely, sir," she said, " an 1 
you're in a cowld thremblin' ; — take this frum me afore you 
lave me." 

" I will indeed, Peggy ; I will indeed ; and I give you 
my hearty thanks besides, for thinking of it ; you are a 
good creature, Peggy ; and indeed I wanted this ; it is 
very thoughtful of you, Peggy." 

The housekeeper had handed the old priest a mug of 
warmed spiced ale, he drank it eagerly ; alas, he said but 
the truth, when he told her he wanted it. He handed her 
back the mug. He gazed into her hard features ; bade her 
farewell, reverently and affectionately; descended to the 
little yard ; gave one look around at the old place, and 
np the little garden, and then stepped into his post-chaise, 
and after a clattering bang-to of its door, was whirled off 
on his journey. 

An old mitten dropped from his hand, as he ascended 
the vehicle. When the chaise was out of sight, Mrs. 
Molloy took it up, kissed it, and closed her hand and 
fingers hard upon it ; and she kept it afterwards, as a pre- 
cious treasure, until her dying day. 



CHAPTER XLm. 

After the departure of the old priest, the good-natured 
attorney, Nelly Oarty, and the head-jailor, from the con- 
demned cell, Edmund FennelTs spiritual friend still re- 
mained with him. It was the object and effort of this 
gentleman now to wean Edmund's mind from any de- 
pendence upon the favorable circumstances which had 
recently occurred, between him and his sentenced lot, and 
once more to fix his whole soul upon the prospect of con* 
fronting, within a few measured hours, his eternal judge. 
This he did gradually and imperceptibly, but successfully ; 
dwelling upon all the hopes held out, he argued from them, 
even as Edmund's legal adviser had done, that they were 



FATHER CONNELL. 355 

not so certain as the fact that the sentence of the law 
should take its course, if the very personal appearance of 
Helen M'Neary did not occur to interrupt it And by de- 
grees Edmund's mind and spirit followed the arguments 
of the good clergyman ; and. in profoundest awe, and not 
without an occasional dash of wholesome fear, he at length 
brought himself to contemplate, almost exclusively, the 
tremendous subject of the change from life to eternity, 
through the gates of death, and the vastness, and the 
mightiness, and the mystery of a meeting with his Maker. 

At about one o'clock in the morning, the clergyman 
bade him a temporary farewell, and Edmund was alone 
with his own thoughts — a prayer-book in his hand, to 
which his eye often reverted. 

His attention became distracted by a sudden and great 
tumult on the outside of the prison. There was a thun- 
dering and battering at the iron-sheeted door, and a 
clamor of many voices, over all of which, one voice, which 
Edmund thought he should know, pre-eminently bellowed. 
Then he heard the voices, evidently in the interior of the 
jail, and much confused tramping and stamping, and shuf- 
fling and dragging, near to him, and at a distance. Pres- 
ently silence ensued. But the door of his dungeon was 
shortly afterwards unlocked, and Tom Naddy made his ap- 
pearance. 

Edmund Fennell had extended his hand to greet Tom's 
entrance, but he held it back upon perceiving what, under 
the circumstances, he could not avoid considering as an 
unnatural and brutal levity, on the part of his old 
acquaintance. Tom's hat was quite out of his general 
mode of wearing that appendage — considerably to one side 
of his head, and fixed, indeed, in an absolutely rakish 
position ; an unrestrained broad grin ran over his face, 
and he was really, and truTy, and heartily, and loudly 
whistling a jig-air at intervals. Besides his usual cautious 
carriage, he assumed, too, as much of a swagger as his size 
and proportions permitted. 

"Well, Masther Ned," said Tom, "an' how goes oats 
to-day ?" 

Edmund gazed at him, not in anger, but in great horror 
and disgust. 

"Very bad accommodations they give here, Masther 



856 FATHER COHHBLL. 

Ned, considering that they make people put up their 
quarters in id, agen the grain." 

So utterly had Ned Fennell been absorbed in the con* 
templation of unearthly matters, that his mere human 
reason proved dull, for a moment, to the meaning which, 
in a more disengaged frame of mind, he must have at- 
tached to Tom's buffoonery. 

"You have absented yourself, ' he said, " all through my 
misery, and you are now come to insult me ?" 

"No, Masther Ned, I am not," answered Tom Naddy, 
now showing, by his tones and manner, that he could feel 
— "bud I have news to tell you, that 'ill — " and he resumed 
his waggery — " that 'ill make you put that good book in 
your pocket, until daybreak, at laste." 

Edmund began to apprehend. He gaped, he stared, he 
clasped his hands : — 

" Well?— do not trifle with me one moment !" 

" Masther Ned, I won a wager or two ould golden 
guineas from you afore now ; I have them two guineas 
yet — an' I'll bet you the same two agen ten more, that I'll 
make you caper about this cursed hole ov a place — ay — an 9 
afore you're much oulder — like a young filly through a 
clover-field." 

"Torn!" was all Edmund Fennell could say, as he 
grasped tightly the fellow's arm. 

"Ay, faith— cover-the-buckle it must be, by the piper 
that played afore Moses." 

" My wife— Tom — my wife !" 

"Brave an' hearty, she thanks you kindly — would you 
like to see her, Masther Ned?" 

Tom knocked at the dungeon door, and the next instant 
Helen M'Neary was embraced by her young husband. A 
description of their meeting shall not be attempted, by its 
present incompetent historians. 

" By the great Gog, he's fond of her, shure enough, poor 
fellow," said Gaby M'Neary, who, unheeded by Edmund 
Fennell, had been looking on ; and who, as he spoke, put 
his hand to his throat, as if to force down something which 
he felt stuck in it. 

"Edmund! dear Edmund I" whispered Helen, "my 
father — mv father is present." 

" Your rather, Helen ?" He gazed stupidly around him 



FATHER C0HH1LL. 857 

u Excuse me, sir," he said — "I did not indeed know that 
you were here." 

"By Gog, you puppy, that's plain enough, and divil a 
much you care if I was in Dingle-dee-cooch, if you spoke 
the truth." 

" Sir, sir, your presence makes me hope that I am the 
happiest creature the day ever dawned on — it makes me 
hope, sir, you forgive me." 

" What would be the use in laying this stick on your 
shoulders, until I broke it in pieces, as I ought to do ? 
Confound the baggage, she wouldn't quit you now if I 
were to go whistle jigs to a milestone for it" 

" He forgives us fully, dearest Edmund — and he loves us 
folly," whispered Helen. 

"Sir," continued Edmund, while he and his bride knelt 
to old Gaby — "you will find me a grateful son ; if ever I 

E've you, or my darling Helen, cause to regret your great 
ndness, I pray that he who now blesses me sc exceed- 
ingly, may punish me in proportion." 

" Your hand here, you damned puppy. After all, I ran 
away with her mother myself ; blug-a-bouns ! couM I ex- 
pect that she wouldn't have the ould drop in her, got at 
both sides of the house? There, shake hands, and let 
there be an end to it. There's only one thing I'll ask from 
you, you young rascal" 

"Anything, sir — anything that I can promise or perfor.x 
—only name it." 

" Bead your recantation — pitch Popery and holy water 
to ould Nick, and go to church, like a dacent, honest fel- 
low. BJ'ig-a-bounkers ! is it laughing at me you are, you 
cross-grained cur?" he exclaimed digressively, as he turned 
hastily round to Tom Naddy, and gave him such a tap on 
the head with his bludgeon as caused Tom to cringe, and 
rub hard the affected part — "By Gog alive, I'll crack you* 
crown in pieces, before you re much older — ha ! take that* 
and the devil be your apothecary ; 'twas you brought all 
this about, you brat ; I know the whole of it," he contin- 
ued, re-addressing his son-in-law — " the grinning monkey 
Aad the impudence to tell me every word about it, and 
didn't seem a bit afraid neither; — 'twas he schemed out 
this marriage between ye-— and damn my buttons if ever 
I'd forgive the pair of ye, only that it was that whelp's 



858 FATHER COHNELL. 

doing, and not your own— ha! ha! ha!" by the boot, but 
'twas a good joke for all that, stomping about in great 
glee — "he laid you a wager of two guineas that Helen 
would be married in a week — you thought the wager was 
that she should be married to creeping Dick Stanton ; but 
the devil's bird there, to win his two guineas, worked his 
plan to marry her to yourself — never a better, ha! ha! 
Well, you brat, 111 give you your due — you're as cunning 
as old Barnn^ the robber — every bit — ha ! ha ! — ay, by the 
great Gog— only 'twas that cur's doing, I'd never let ye 
within two acres of one another— one or the other of ye." 

"Now my dear father, you would, you would, even for 
my sake." 

"Why, mam,'' put in Tom Naddy, "he neither et, nor 
dhrank, nor slept, from the moment you left him, until he 
got you back again." 

" By Gog, you lie, yon curmudgeon ! I ate two legs of 
mutton, and I dhrank a dozen of port ; and I snored so 
loud, that you'd hear me from Cork to Dublin. But, you 
baggage, well have no more fighting, and no more parting ; 
and when that puppy of yours goes to church, as I said 
before, and comes home an honest Protestant, well be as 
happy as the day is long. But don't think youU escape me, 
you mongrel — 111 thrash you within an inch of your life, 
every day in the week — and by Gog you should never enter 
my doors, you brat, only you're the very fellow that has 
made us all so happy — hoUoo ! abroad there !" he thundered 
at the cell-door with his bludgeon ; the head-jailor appeared ; 
he intimated that he was about to withdraw from the jail, 
and take his son-in-law, the prisoner, home with him ; the 
man modestly demurred, stating that such a proceeding must 
occur formally, and that he could not risk his situation, to 
allow it to happen in any other manner. 

" Gog's-blug-an-ages ! Don't you know who I am, man? 
And won't I be your warrant?" 

The jailor did know very well, and no one could respect 
Mr. M'Neary, and the young lady, and the young gentleman, 
more than he did : but — 

Gaby M'Neary blustered again, and even raised his stick ; 
all was useless ; the man was firm, though not offensive ; 
and until a reasonable hour in the morning, Mr. M'Neary 
could not expect to remove Mr. Fennell from the prison. 



FATHER CONNELL. 859 

" Then well all star where we are, till a reasonable hour 
in the morning, by the great Gog ! an' you most give us a 
good table and chairs here — d'ye hear me, sir ? And you 
must send somebody— here, Naddy, you brat, you'll do the 
business—gallop off to my house, and bring up here the 
cold sirloin that I left almost as good as new to-day ; and 
the two bottles of wine that you'll find on the parlor side- 
board, and all the other things we wmt — and get all the 
help you can in the house to carry them with you — run, you 
starved brat ! Ay, by the great Gog 1 if we must stay here 
till a reasonable hour in the morning, well make a morning 
of it!" 

The governor of the jail, with all his turnkeys and per- 
sonal servants who were awake, supplied the chairs and 
tables ordered. Tom Naddy ran down the street, and 
almost ran back again, laden as he was, followed by one or 
two assistants, and the table was soon covered, and the 
chairs soon occupied ; and never, from that time to this, or 
before, did such a revel, a " rolicking," take place in a con- 
demned cell But it will be easily conceived that in all the 
loud or expressive portions of this merry-making, Gaby 
M'Neary and Tom Naddy were the most distinguished per- 
formers. Poor Helen, and poor Edmund sat side by side, 
hand in hand, almost cheek to cheek, and only speaking to 
each other in whispers, except when summoned by weir 
chief to respond to some very emphatic question or burst 
of hilarity. 

Tom Naddy was seated to one side of the cell ; and of 
course recounted how he had succeeded in discovering and 
recapturing Helen ; how Nelly Carty's hints sent him to 
the exact place, the old ruined building, about twenty-five 
miles distant, and how Gaby M'Neary's best horse enabled 
him to get there, almost as soon as the cart in which Helen 
was conveyed thither ; how he quietly sought out a magis- 
trate, told him his story, and with him and his constables, 
assisted by a score of the peasantry, surrounded and in- 
vaded the old thieves' den ; how, by Nelly Carty's directions, 
he was enabled, after much trouble, however, to discover 
the secret stone? which gave entrance to the secret vault ; 
how, in it, they found and secured the "young misthress," 
the Baby, and two of his elder confederates ; how the 
magistrate Wttt Helen his carriage to convey her home to 



S60 FATHER CONNRLL. 

her father and the "young masther ;" while he, Tom 
Naddy, sat triumphantly on its dickey ; and how, at the 
same time, the constables and the country people kept up 
with the carriage, conveying to the jail now above their 
heads, well secured on a car, their detested prisoners. 
And Edmund understood that it was the disposing of 
these individuals, against their will, in suitable lodgings in 
the prison, which had caused the most part of the startling 
noises that broke up his devotions. 

The autumn morning crept in, even through the bars of 
Edmund's condemned celL Nay, flickerings of pale sunlight, 
as if looking frightened at having got into jail, followed 
the dawn. It became " a reasonable hour in the morning," 
and the governor of the prison ventured to re-appear, and 
hint as much to Gaby M'Neary. Gaby took home his 
daughter, remained absent about an hour, and then came 
back, and took home his son-in-law also— every formality 
having been gone through — the "hanging judge" himself, 
who had not yet left town, having been seen. 

Prodigious was the breakfast prepared under Gaby's 
roof. To repose he would not go, nor let any one else go, 
until tea and coffee, eggs, and indeed all viancls within 
reach, should have laid the effects of his two bottles of wine, 
which, by the way, he and Tom Naddy had almost ex- 
clusively consumed between them. Then his brain was full 
of another project, or, indeed, projects, to be immediately 
entered upon. Invitations were to be sent out, on a vast 
scale, for a dinner and a supper, including a ball, and pre- 
parations to be instantly commenced for the tremendous 
revelry. So, amongst a hundred other things, he set 
Helen's pen to work on the invitations, and he would go 
himself and verbally deliver those which she could not be 
expected to write. And she and Edmund were to be re- 
married before dinner by a Protestant clergyman, and — 
" blug-an'-ages I how could he forget so long? — old priest 
Connell was to be at the dinner among the rest, ay, and 
among the first and the best ; and he and Edmund would 
start that moment together to secure his company. 

Edmund would go with his father-in-law delightedly, oa 
such an errand. But before they left the house, he fixed 
Gaby M'Neary's attention to another subject, upon which 
he and Helen had been speaking much and anxiously. It 



FATHER CONNELL. 861 

that of poor Mary Coonev. So, her relationship to 
Gaby was stated; and then, her history, her sufferings, 
her character, her late domestication in Father Conner's 
house, Helen's visit to her there, and then, her last night's 
sad and terrible adventures ; her present sojourn in the 
old mill, under her wretched mother's care— everything 
was communicated to the astonished, the wondering, the 
pleased, the delighted, the cursing and swearing, the 
stumping, and the almost blubbering Gaby M'Neary. He 
immediately dragged Edmund away with him. 

Act they walked through the streets of the town in great 
haste, arm in arm > how the thousand eyes of curiosity 
peered after them! And how many faces, which but 
yesterday had scowled upon Edmund as a disowned ac- 
quaintance, now turned to him, radiant with friendly 
smiles! Is it man's heart that spontaneously and genu- 
inely gives to him generous feelings, or are those feelings 
which are only so called, first admitted to that heart under 
the keen inspection of his prudence and self-interest ? 

They went to Father Connell's house, and, for the first 
time, Edmund learned that the old man had gone to Dub- 
lin the night before, to present personally the memorial in 
his own favor. His mind and heart gave a start — an ut- 
terly admiring, an utterly venerating — and he knew not 
why, an anxious and a fear-fraught start He bent his 
head, and from that instant, was more thoughtful and sad 
than became his situation. 

His companion urged him on to the old milL Here 
Nelly Oarty's story was ascertained to be true enough. 
Gaby wanted to see the poor beggar-girl immediately ; 
but prudence forbade this, and they returned to the town, 
and sent back to her medical advice and assistance ; and 
under her physician's permission, she was removed that 
very day, evening rather, to a commodious apartment, 
under Gaby's roof, where Helen received her as a sister 
incteed ; wnere the master of the house, under promise of 
keeping himself quiet, was allowed to give her a father's 
welcome ; where Edmund Fennell once more took her 
hand as a brother, and where the poor Nelly Oarty still 
continued as her head-nurse. Happy Mary 1 

Edmund communicated to Helen the fact of Father 
Connell's journey to Dublin, and matte her, by the intel* 



862 FATHER C<flNELL. 

ligence, aa sod and as nervous as he was himself. But the 
materials for the mighty dinner, boiled and broiled, and 
roasted and stewed on, and they were ready to be set on 
the table, and the concourse who were to partake of them 
assembled. Ail the scholars of Dick Wresham's school, 
with all their wives, daughters, sisters, and so forth, and 
a great many more of the aristocracy of the town, with 
their gentle appurtenances also ; and in their presence, in 
the drawing-room, Helen and Edmund were remarried by 
the Protestant rector of the parish ; and then the multi- 
tude trooped down to the feast ; and mighty was the din 
and the clatter of plates and dishes, knives and forks, and 
of the laughing, talking, hob-nobbing, and over all, Gaby 
M'Neary's bellowing to Tom Naddy. 

" Throw open all the doors, street-door and all," cried 
Gaby M'Neary, "that we may hear the joy-bells I have 
set a-going." 

In the steeple of the ancient cathedral of the city, there 
were four or nve bells of good sizes and sounds, only that 
one of them was cracked, which occasionally rung out as 
joy-bells ; and old Gaby had indeed set them in motion 
on this happy day. 

" There tney go !" he continued, rubbing his hands, as, 
after his instructions about opening the doors had been 
obeyed, the joy-bells became partially heard from a dis- 
tance, even amid the din of the dining-room ; " there they 
go jollily ! But my curse on that passing-bell from your 
Mary's steeple, Mr. Thomson," addressing the rector— 
" Who the divil is dead now, I'd be glad to know ; some 
old lady in a faded black silk cloak, I suppose, that they're 
making all this fuss about — damn it! it comes strong on 
us again — Naddy, you brat, shut all the doors now." 

These orders were also obeyed, and, in consequence, 
the joy-bells indeed were no longer heard at the board of 
feasting ; but Mary's steeple being much nearer than the 
steeple of the old cathedral, the steady tolling of the 
passing-bell, at measured intervals, could not be shut out 
Edmund and Helen exchanged looks not in sympathy 
with the bridal feast, and they the bride and the bride- 
groom. It was a late dinner ; the revellers had not sat 
to table till nearly eight o'clock. About two hours had 
now elapsed since then, and Helen stealthily retired to 



FATHER CONNELL. 363 

drees and prepare for accompanying her husband, almost 
immediately, to her father's little country villa, where they 
were to spend the remainder of the evening alone. Ed- 
mund sat silent and spiritless after she went away. Tom 
Naddy came to the back of his chair, and informed him 
that a messenger had been sent from his bishop, summon- 
ing him to an interview, on pressing and immediate busi- 
ness. He started and turned pale, facing round to Naddy, 
and staring studiously into his eyes. The lad averted his 
glances, but Edmund saw that he had been weeping. 
He jumped up, and hurried out of the house to his 
bishop. 

The dignitary met him gravely and sadly, though kindly. 
He had almost that instant received, he said, a letter, by 
dispatch, from the Catholic archbishop of Dublin, concern- 
ing Father Connell, in which the archbishop advised that 
Mr. Fennell should be consulted on the present occasion, 
in consequence of some words that had escaped his old 
parish priest The bishop went on to say that Father 
Connell had reached Dublin, about eight o'clock that 
morning, but in a very feverish, shattered, and exhausted 
state ; that he had immediately called on his old friend, 
the archbishop, — before now, Catholic bishop of Edmund's 
diocese — to advise with him about waiting on the Lord 
Lieutenant ; that the archbishop had recommended him, 
first of all, to take repose ana refreshment ; but that 
Father ConnelTs great and devouring anxiety rejected 
every such proposal ; that almost on the instant, the 
writer was therefore obliged perforce to accompany him to 
the viceregal lodge, in the Phoenix park, where he had the 
entrto ; and finally, that Father Connell, while in the act 
of presenting on his knees, to the Lord Lieutenant, the 
memorial in Edmund's favor, had fainted, and very shortly 
afterwards died. 

Edmund Fennell broke out of his bishop's . house. He 
ran to an inn or hotel, and ordered a post-chaise to be 
in instant readiness at his father-in-law s door. He flew 
home to Helen, found her dressed in her room, waiting for 
him to accompany her to her father's country cottage ; told 
her the news, and saw her the moment afterwards insen- 
sible at his feet He sent down for Gaby M'Neary, and 
told him the news also. Gaby filled up with a great and 



864 FATHER CONNBLL. 

true sorrow ; and in a few minutes afterwards hi* guests 
were dismissed, his house shut up, — 

" And the banquet-hall deserted." 

The post-chaise arrived at the door ; Edmund strained 
his bride to his breast; shook his weeping father-in-law 
by the hands; ran down stairs, jumped into the post- 
chaise, and was whirled out of the town at a gallop. And 
this was his Helen's second nuptial night 

It was the Catholic bishop who had sent to get the pass- 
ing-bell tolled, in Mary's steeple. 



CHAPTER XLIV. 



Edmund had learned from the archbishop's letter some- 
thing more than has yet been noticed. According to it, 
Father Council's last words were to the effect — " That his 
dying blessing, as a priest and a father, should be sent to 
Neddy FenneU ; also information that he should like to be 
buried with the old parish priests, in their own old church- 
yard." 

The archbishop added, that, in obedience to these wishes 
of the dead, he had instantly ordered arrangements to be 
made for the transmission of the body from Dublin ; that 
at the moment he was writing, such arrangements were 
actively going on ; and that he hoped and expected that 
all would be on its way to its destination, about two or 
three o'clock that same day. And this was the particular 
intelligence which sent Edmund so rapidly towards the 
metropolis. 

Before daybreak, next morning, people might be seen 
walking slowly, in twos and threes at a time, towards the 
Dublin road — rich and poor, all classes, in alternation. No 

Eublic intention had been made known on the occasion ; 
ut the news that the body might be expected to leave 
Dublin, at an hour already mentioned, got abroad, and this 
silent movement was the result. 
A very great crowd had congregated about two miles 



FATHER CONNELL. 865 

from tLe town, and still the day had not dawned. The 
people timed their motions very well, calculating on the 
decent and slow progress which would be made from 
Dublin. Presently, the red glaring lamps of the vehicle, 
steadily approaching, appeared in view. Soon after, the 
stepping of the horses was heard ; and then the nodding 
of the plumes of the hearse became visible, together with 
the white scarf and hatband of the driver. Up to this mo- 
ment there had been a deathlike silence among the crowd, 
now there was one low outbreak, made up of the sup- 
pressed groans of men and the wailing of women. 

All heads were uncovered, and many knelt in prayer. 

The hearse passed by ; two mourning coaches followed 
it In the first of these, visible by the light of the lamps 
which it also bore, and muffled up to the brows in his 
mourning cloak, and without motion or a glance around 
him, sat Edmund Fennel! In the other, the people dis- 
cerned, to their great delight and admiration, the former 
bishop of their diocese — the former resident in Father 
Connell'8 little thatched house, and the former intimate 
and affectionate friend of the ancient priest He was him- 
self now a very old man. 

There was a third vehicle, containing such of the near 
relations of Father Connell as had had tune so to arrange as 
to go a little way to meet him, on his last earthly journey. 

The sad little cortege moved slowly on. The great 
throng of people proceeded with it at either side, or closed 
behind it. Profound silence again reigned amongst them. 
Arrived at the suburbs of the town, very little way was to 
be made to Father ConnelTs late dwelling ; and here the 
people left the hearse, and returned into the town. The 
morning came through clouds and mists upon the little 
city ; but a moral gloom, deeper than that cast by the 
weather, also fell upon it There was no man, woman, or 
child, among its population who was not acquainted with 
Father ConnelTs character, who did not venerate and love 
him when alive, and who did not now mourn him, dead. 
This- assertion is literal ; it makes no exception for social 
degree, or for sect, or for party. The glorious and the great 
charity, in the exercise of which he had spent a long, long 
life, and, at last, braved and met death; the glorious and the 
great charity, which had been, as it were, the very essence 



866 FATHER CONNKLL. 

and the very breath of his being — that charity, now filling 
with admiration and affection all hearts, made all unite, 
for a time, at least, in one demonstration of feeliig. It 
was the pouring out of oil upon the spiteful though paltry 
waves of their sectarian personalities and passions, until 
it stilled them into a glassy stillness. And thus charity 
begat charity. Their common love for one man, whom 
they loved, because he was charitable, made them also 
charitable in themselves, and to one another. 

It was, and is the custom in Father Connell's town, for 
the shopkeepers partially to close their shop-windows, upon 
the death of a neighbor, On this day, every shop-window 
was fully closed. Every passing-bell tolled — the almost 
unheard, illegal little bells attached to Catholic chapels, 
and the more sonorous ones in the legal church steeples. 
The citizens of every grade met in little groups abo%*" the 
streets ; and you could pass none of them who we& not 
talking, in low voices, of the man and the event, whom all 
mourned and deplored, and of arrangements to be made 
for a public funeral in his honor ; and Protestant and 
Catholic discussed the subject together. And there was, 
somehow, a strange silence through all places of usual 
public resort and bustle, which thrilled you; and few 
were seen to laugh during the day. 

At about noon, hundreds after hundreds began to visit 
Father Council's little chapeL There, upon an elevated 
framework, a kind of bier, they found, as they expected, 
his mortal remains, laid out in the coffin, in the middle of 
the building. The body was draped in its priest's vest- 
ment, over all its usual clothes, and the semblance of a 
chalice was between its hands : so are Catholic priests 
arrayed for the grave. A number of candles surrounded 
the coffin. The features of the corpse wore their usual 
living smile ; and the glittering benevolence of the hand- 
some old blue eyes was only wanting, to make it appear 
life indeed. Many, many who looked upon it, remembered 
it well as the blessed harbinger of consolation and relief 
to them, in former days of suffering and sorrow. 

On the floor beneath, surrounding the coffin, wore 
benches, on which sat the mourners of the dead — his 
nearest relations. But apart from the rest, immediately 
under the head of the body, stood one mourner, who, 



FATHER CONNELL. 867 

though no one could see his features, on account of the 
arrangement of his black cloak, all knew well ; and they 
knew that since the body had arrived from Dublin, he had 
never quitted it for a moment, tasting no food, no drink — 
partaking of no kind of refreshment— speaking with none, 
and addressed by none-— for his mighty grief, and, the 
people believed, his remorse, was respected, nay, almost 
reared to an extent which made all loth to communicate 
with him. 

There he remained the livelong day, wordless and mo* 
tionless, except that now and wen, and very seldom, 
*^e would change his standing position for a sitting one. 
Night came on, and he was still on his post. Messages 
reached him from the good old archbishop, who had taken 
up his temporary residence in the priest s abode, near at 
hand, entreating — nay, commanding him — to leave the 
body for a time, and take some repose and nourishment ; 
but he only answered these communications with a deny- 
ing and most mournful motion of his head. His father- 
in-law, Gaby M'Neary, being applied to, came personally, 
and even with requests from his young wife, to solicit him 
on the same subject ; but these appeals, also, he scarcely 
heeded. 

It grew far advanced in the night, and people shuddered 
to see him still continue almost alone to bear the dead 
company. 

Next morning, at the earliest hour that visitors began 
to come again to the chapel, the same figure was still seen 
at the coffin head. 'The noon of the second day arrived ; 
the archbishop, with the bishop of the diocese, and a 
number of priest's, assembled to celebrate a solemn mass 
for the repose of the soul of Father Connell ; and then, 
for the first time, Edmund Fennell moved from his po- 
sition, walking straight down the chapel he entered the 
railed way of the little sanctuary, knelt down on the low- 
est step of the altar, and still in utter silence served the 
mass — such is the technical expression — the same as he 
had often, often done, even in childish days when Father 
Connell used to be the officiating priest, and when his old 
and beloved features used to beam the affection which his 
heart fait, upon the glossy-haired urchin who attended him. 

The mass was over ; the dignitaries and their clergymen 



368 FATHER CONNELL. 

assembled in the choir, round the coffin, and began to 
chaunt the sublime and touching service, called in the 
Catholic church, the office of the dead. Edmund Fennell 
had preceded them to the head of the bier. The service 
continued for about three hours longer ; and then prepar- 
ations began to be made for the funeral During the mass, 
one little occurrence should not be forgotten in this no- 
tice. The chapel was crowded to inconvenience. At a 
certain pause in the ceremony, a priest turned round on 
the altar, and strove to pronounce aloud, while his voice 
failed him, the following words : — 

" Pray for the repose of the soul of the Reverend Phelim 
Connell, your late parish priest," — all the people had been 
standing, — the moment the words were heard, man, woman, 
and child, suddenly knelt, and there was a burst of weep- 
ing petition to Heaven, smothered in sobs and groans, 
over which woman's stifled shrieks partially arose, and the 
bitter crying of the little boys of Father ConnelTs school 
was distinctly heard. 

The people would not permit the body to be conveyed to 
the grave, as was first proposed by the directors of the 
funeral, in the hearse which had borne it from Dublin ; — 
senseless animals, fcl\ey said, should not move it on that 
occasion, while they had arms and shoulders to perform the 
duty. So they provided a handsome little thing, a minia- 
ture hearse, still, with plumes and velvet trappings, fringed 
with gold lace ; and in this, almost exactly fitting it, the 
coffin was placed, and borne, palaquin-like, upon men's 
shoulders. On coming out of the chapel, the approach or 
lane leading to the little edifice, the churchyard, the priest's 
yard and garden, and the suburb street without, were found 
crowded with the more respectable citizens of ail ranks — 
and after what has been said, it will be unnecessary to add, 
of all sects and parties, wearing ample scarfs and hat-banda 
of white linen, and waiting to form into funeral procession. 
There could not be less than thousands of them. Similar 
badges of mourning had been provided for the boys of the 
parish school ; and amongst the general train, little fellows, 
almost children, the sons of the citizens, were also scarfed 
and hat-banded ; — let it be permitted to us to record, that 
of these childish participators in the general demonstration 
of sorrow, two little O'Haras were included. 



FATHER CONNELL. 

The order of the funeral being arranged, it proceeded on 
its course. Before the coffin were men in black cloaks, 
with poles in their hands, draped at the top in white linen, 
to lead or clear the way. The truly venerable archbishop, 
the bishop of the diocese, and a great number of priests 
followed them. Immediately behind the coffin, was the one 
wayward self-chosen chief mourner, walking companionless 
— alone. After him came the relations of the deceased, 
wearing, like him, black cloaks. After them again, the 
schoolboys linked two and two, and headed by Mick 
Dempsey, stooped with grief, and blind with tears; then the 
religious women and girls of Father GonnelTs choir, pre- 
ceded by poor Mrs. Molloy, all wearing their white cloaks ; 
and then the long procession of those wearing scarfs and 
hat-bands, two and two, like the schoolboys. Some private 
carriages made up the brain. 

The body was borne from the churchyard, in which, 
however, finally it was to rest, and proceeded by suburb 
ways, to the bridge, which led into the Irish town. This it 
passed, and continued all through the city to the second 
bridge, of which the position may be recollected. The 
multitude which accompanied the procession, at either 
side of the streets, was immense. As the little hearse 
passed the military posts of guard along its route, the sol- 
diers were turned out, and headed by their officers, and 
imitated by the sentinels on duty, presented arms. The 
windows were thrown up, and filled with ladies and female 
children, almost all wearing some insignia of mourning. 

While the body was crossing the second bridge, the first 
bridge, a mile distant, became in view, and it was perceived 
that the lengthened lines of white scarfs and hat-bands, 
had not yet nearly passed the latter, for the private car- 
riages were not visible. But the little hearse itself, had 
now but a short way to go. It was soon at its journey's 
end. The clergyman at its head, began to chaunt the mag- 
nificent De profundi* clamavu The nearest of the proces- 
sion hatted* and stood uncovered ; and in a whisper, but 
with electric speed, the word ran along the whole train, 
through the whole town, until all stood still, and were 
uncovered also. The last rights ensued. A shovelful of 
clay was thrown upon the coffin, now in the grave ; the 
hollow noise it made, found an echo in the breasts of all 



*!• FATHER GOmU. 

who were near enough to hear it, and the lament thai fol- 
lowed was swfoL The grave was dosed and monnded up, 
the sorrowful multitude gradually dispersed, and Father 
Council's mortal portion was left as he had wished it 
should be, "among the old parish priests, in their own old 
churchyard." 



CHAPTER XLY. 



Let many months pass away ; let many tears be dried — 
many and most sincere ones ; let the old soother of the 
deepest human sorrow, old Father Time, have his usual — 
ana, — bat that it must be part of a great mysterious plan, 
—we had almost said contemptible influence, upon the 
deepest grief that the poor human heart can experience ; 
at all events, let many months pass away. 

Edmund Fennell is now happy with his young wife 
under her father's roof, where old Gaby insisted they 
should fix their residence. Happy, indeed, he must needs 
have been with such a wife as Helen ; although in the very 
buoyant time of his youth and of hers there had passed 
over their spirit an experience and control, which checked 
mere buoyancy, and always sobered and often saddened 
their future life. They deeply learned, too, the error of a 
hasty and clandestine marriage, and the terrible conse- 

Suences in which it may involve ail concerned in it ; and 
\ eventually, none of those consequences abided with 
them, they had to ascribe the blessing to their sincere 
contrition, and to their unceasing efforts to lead and prop, 
adown the descent of life, by the easiest and most flowery 
paths, their kind-hearted, though eccentric, and only sur- 
viving parent. 

Mary Cooney perfectly recovered from the effects of the 
wounds she had received ; nor was her great beauty at all 
marred by them. Becoming assured that the poor woman 
who attended her was really her mother, and much touched 
and interested by her deep though rude affection, a serious 
project now occupied her young heart, for the advantage 
vf the potato-beggar. This was to imbue her mind with 



FATHER CONNELL. 871 

the same good and religions discipline which she had her- 
self received under Father Conner's roof. During Mary's 
progress to perfect recovery, which was tedious, a good 
opportunity was afforded for the purpose, and Mary's filial 
and pious efforts were not wholly thrown away. Her 
mother could not read, and it would have been useless,, 
at her age, to become her teacher in this respect But 
Mary taught the poor woman all the prayers she had her- 
aelf learned, and afterwards her catechism from beginning 
to end. The most important part of the young teacher's 
lessons consisted, however, in her really eloquent conver- 
sations with Nelly Carty, in explanation of articles of 
religious belief, or in observations upon them, directly 
calculated to make her a good and practical Christian ; 
and here she was helped, not only by her vivid recollec- 
tions of her old patron's continual expositions with herself, 
but always by a fructifying graft upon them, from her own 
habitual thoughts, feelings, and experience. And the poor 
old creature would sit on the floor at her daughter's feet, 
her hands clasped before her, and tears streaming down 
her cheeks, as she looked up into her face, listening to the 
girlish lecturer, with a love and an admiration, equal at 
least to her yearning anxiety to become, under the hands 
of such an instructress, " a good woman at last." 

When Mary fully recovered, Nelly Carty was easily pre- 
vailed on to give up her old trade, as well as her old irre- 
ligious courses. She became settled, in a neat little cabin, 
on a farm belonging to Edmund Fennell, and engaged in 
such occupations as enabled her to earn her bread decently 
and honestly. One rather revengeful resolution, made 
in more graceless days, Nelly Carty would not however 
forego. When the next city assizes came round, Robin 
Costigan, who certainly owed the gallows a leath fairly 
due, was a second time hanged, in the face of the shower 
of houses; and a woman, with the hood of her cloak 
drawn round her face, who, after some whispering with 
the sheriff seemed to obtain that officer's permission for 
what she was about to do, stood watchfully at the foot of 
the gibbit, received the body in her arms when it was cut 
down, as on a similar occasion she had done upwards of 
thirty years before, examined curiously the tie of the rope- 
knot, and certain marks about the neck, apparently makinp 



872 FATHER CONNELL. 

very gore that the hangman had on this, occasion done his 
business properly, ere she would allow the carcase to be 
conveyed for dissection to the county hospital near at 
hand. 

After her complete restoration to health, Mary Cooney 
became, in her turn, the pupil of her sister Helen. Helen 
was indeed surprised, to find her so advanced in her 
education under Mick Dempsey's instructions; but the 
superior mind with which Heaven had blessed the beggar- 
girl, soon became obvious to her sister, and Helen did not 
mil to do all she could to complete it Hence, in her 
twenty-first year, she was Helen s equal in literature, as 
well as in all little accomplishments. Even her manners, 
her mode of speaking, the tones of her voice, her very 
motions, nearly resembled those characteristics of her 
gentle tutoress ; and the two sisters, notwithstanding the 
many original disproportions in their lot, became close 
companions — it need not be said loving ones. 

Master Tom Naddy had for many years cherished cer- 
tain hopes, growing out of a secret love for the beggar- 
girl ; but he did not tell his love, neither did he let the 
"worm prey on his damask cheek." While hope continued, 
Tom would try to abandon what Gaby M'Neary called " his 
hanging-bone-gait," whenever Mary Cooney required any 
service at his hands, and try to become as brisk as a bee. 
But as Mary improved under her sister's affectionate 
tuition, Tom's expectations, even in his own opinion, 
looked less sunny every day. He only whistled, however, 
over the ML of the castle he had erected, having the good 
sense to perceive that Mary was gradually and deservedly 
rising above his level, and ultimately, that she was quite 
beyond his reach. When she became the wife of another, 
he good-humoredly gave up every idea of quitting his 
bachelor's free and easy state ; and to all hints about 
changing his condition, he would answer " There's more 
married than keeps good houses," or "I'm a great fool, 
but not such a fool as that would make me," or " There's 
no harm in letthV well alone." 

He lived his whole life with Edmund Fennell, half- 
friend, half-servant, spending his time, to all appearance, 
very much to his own satisfaction. And besides super-, 
intending cleverly and honestly houses and lands, there 



FATHER CONNELL. 378 

was scarcely a question but that some of his leisure hours 
were devoted to the prompting to certain pranks the 
young Fennells, particularly during their childhood and 
earliest boyhood, of which pranks their grandfather was 
chiefly the object. Once, on awakening from his after* 
dinner nap, Gaby M'Neary found himself fettered down 
fast, with innumerable small bonds, in his arm-chair — the 
result, by the way, of Tom Naddy's recent perusal of 
Gulliver's Travels, and of his impartation of his knowledge 
to his promising pupils. It was decided in council that 
Gaby should perform the part of Gulliver ; and it was in 
vain he tried to arise, and stamp with his stick, towards 
the imps who were laughing at him in one corner, or 
towards Tom Naddy who was grinning at him from 
another. On another occasion, after putting his specta- 
cles on his nose, over and over again, inquiring at each 
trial, " What has come over ye for spectacles ?" and still 
not being able to see one jot through them, he would at 
length discover that the cause of his failure was owing to 
their glasses having been carefully extracted. Again, the 
besom would somehow become metamorphosed into a 
blackamoor, and Gaby M'Neary would find the unsightly 
bedfellow " cheek-by-jowl " with him in his bed, when he 
awoke in the morning. But worse still ; Boxer, the rough 
muzzled terrier, being first set a snarling, was by Tom 
Naddy's tuition taught to growl out " Grandpapa " very 
distinctly — the operator holding his jaws between his 
finger and thumb, and occasionally tightening or relaxing 
his grasp, so as to break up the animal's snarl into the 
word desired. Under these persecutions, Gaby vented all 
his abusive epithets on Tom Naddy ; and it behooved Tom 
to keep his eye well about him, in order to avoid condign 
punishment ; and his old master, unable to overtake him 
m his dodgings round the parlor, or out of it, would hide 
behind the doors, and other screens of like convenience, to 
get one good hit at the offender. And yet Gaby M'Neary 
highly prized Tom Naddy, in common, indeed, with every 
one around him. 

And Tom was doomed to administer to the happiness of 
other folk. By his unremitting agency, and it is supposed 
not to his pecuniary disadvantage, little Miss Bessie Lan- 
igan and Mlt. " Q. O. unexpounded," became united in holy 



874 FATHER CONNBLL. 

wedlock ; and to do the little lady common justice, it may 
be added, that Mr. Stanton, at least, could not have made 
a better choice. She was very proud, if not very grateful, 
for the increased comforts and worldly consequence which 
he brought her ; for a larger house, in a larger street ; for 
larger breakfasts, dinners, and suppers of her own, than 
she had ever been accustomed to ; for a largtr wardrobe ; 
— in fact, for everything on a larger scale ; and to guard 
against any stint of his liberality, she sought out studiously 
and cunningly to give him the peculiar marks of affection 
which his temper and character required. From the day 
of his marriage to the day of his death, he had not once 
to complain that his gold-headed cane stood an inch out 
of its prescribed resting-place ; and as to his queue, no ~ 
hands but those of his wife had ever so precisely ribboned 
it, or so neatly adjusted it between his shoulders. 

The stalwart, the bearded, the ill-favored, but still the 
good-hearted Mrs. Molloy, did not lose by her liberal do- 
nation towards the expenses of a certain sad journey, on 
a late most melancholy occasion. In fact, her "warm- 
hearted boy" did not forget her. She was settled by him 
in what she herself called a " sthrong hucksther's shop/' 
where she went on multiplying the reinstated contents of 
her stocking. And here she exacted from Edmund Fen- 
nell's children a tribute of attention to be paid three or 
four times a week — or rather to be eaten up three or four 
times a week — for the ceremony consisted in devouring, 
upon each of their visits, a certain quantity of her home- 
made currant-cake. And if any of them failed in his 
or her duty, Mrs. Molloy, feeling much offended by the 
neglect, would, immediately on the occurrence of such 
omission, close and lock up her establishment, hasten to 
their house, and scold their father and mother heartily for 
the bad bringing up of their children. So long as the 
good woman lived, whenever there was a new birth in the 
Fennell family, or whenever any of the boys or girls were 
cutting their teeth, or indeed indisposed in any way, Mrs. 
Molloy conceived that nothing could be properly done 
without the advantage of her presence and assistance. 

She was an old woman when the good and great man — 
great it is added, because he was greatly good — her ven- 
erable master, died. Yet she survived him for more than 



FATHER CONNELL. 875 

a dozen years ; and she was blessed by the assurance of 
Edmund Fennell, that he would gratify the now fondest 
wish of her heart, by closing her eyes, after her last breath- 
ing in this world. And her " warm-hearted boy " kept his 
promise religiously, performing it not without many grate- 
ful recollections and true tears. 

Although occasionally a very cross woman, and apt to 
make her displeasure known in a manner not to be mis- 
taken, yet in good truth her heart bubbled over with the 
milk of human kindness. To be sure, her love for her 
species was shown after a fashion of her own ; and there 
was one individual of that species whom, though she by 
no means disliked him — Tom Naddy, of course, is meant— 
she never designated, till the hour of her death, by any 
other term than that of " kiln-dried brat" 



HOTEL 



I.— P. 13. 

Ito do s uipti on here given scarcely does justice to the H Biddy Doyle 9 
Cases," provided by Father Connell for his Twelfth Night's guests. 
The sole nmmfailiine of these delicious condiments was confined to the 
resident of a suburb street, and Biddy Doyle lived very comfortably and 
cosily ia her thatched two-story dwelling, which overtopped all the 
neighboring houses, in consequence of her exclusive trade, which no 
one bnt herself knew anything about Every evening her M OaUem na 
sedoowe," or u Girl of the Cakes," bore on her head, in a large, heaped-up 
basket and fresh from the oven, the next day's supply for the different 
foods throughout the town. As she passed along, the air was literally 
filed with fragrance; passengers would turn their heads, and the most 
riotous urchins pause in the full exuberance of their sports to sniff the 
perfumed gale. It was the universal opinion of high and low, old and 
young, that a penny could not be better expended than in the purchase 
of an odoriferous •• Biddy Doyle." No tea-table was furnished without 
them, and on the evening of his Twelfth Night's banquet Father Con- 
nell's (Father ODonnell's) parlor used to be redolent of their perfume 
from floor to ceiling. The feast of cakes and ale, as set forth in the tale, 
Is literally true in all particulars. 

H— P. 3L 

There is a licence taken as to the locality of the poor school built by 
Father ODonnell, and also as to the time when it was erected. That he 
did succeed in building a school for the education of the poor, in the 
manner described, is certain. But his architectural plans were carried 
out before he bad reached the dignity of parish priest, and while yet 
the " coadjutor" of another district The school yet stands as it was 
erected mainly by the aid of his little assistants, employed as told in the 
story ; the other necessary funds he obtained by begging ; and the iden- 
tical edifice is now a National School in connection with the Board of 
Education. 

IIL— P. 89. 

The anecdote of the watch is strictly fact : all the circumstanoes, even 
to the words need on the occasion, were detailed to the writer by the 
recipient of the gift His name, by the way, was Mick Gonell, not 
Mick Dempsey. 

IV.— P. 40. 

All the details of the Christmas distribution of clothing, as given in 
Chap. Y. are literally true. There is no attempt at embellishment or 
exaggeration ; even the deception played off by the old priest and the 



NOTES. 377 

schoolmaster, Mick Conell, to screen the deviation from justice to mercy, 
is correct, and jiist as it was enacted. The bosheen, where Father 
ODonnell concealed himself to review the troop of new-clad urchins, 
was then a lonelj winding lane, bat little frequented. The wide and 
well-kept road leading from our city to Dublin, has replaced the soli- 
tary bye-way ; and the bellowing and puffing and spectre-whistling of 
■team-engines, and the thunder of steam-carriages, little dreamed of in 
those days, has now changed the entire identity of the lonely bosheen. 

V.~ P. 60. 

But one or two cabins now remain of the topsy-turvy collection of 
hovels, noticed in the text, and with much propriety designated, " the 
shower of houses." The gas works supplying our city with light occupy 
the greater portion of the now levelled but formerly hill and hollow 
surface, on which the wigwams of the tale stood. The description holds 
good for the period of the story, and for many subsequent years. 

VI— P. 65. 

The class of mendicants described at the opening of Chap. VII. and 
known as •' potato-beggars " has become nearly, if not altogether, extinct 
Since the erection of the workhouses, for the support of which the Irish 
farmers are heavily taxed, the wholesale distribution of food to the pota* 
to-beggars has ceased. Those known under this appellation, used, while 
the dispensation continued, to live royally, as to eatables and drinka- 
bles, but they were, without an exception, miserable tatterdemalions in 
attire. Good reason there was for this raggedness — a costume either 
whole or cleanly would be unprofessional, and belie the lamentable tale, 
fabricated to operate like a mesmeric finger on the potato grower's bump 
of benevolence. The women under notice were, as a clan (with some 
honorable exceptions, of course), of depraved morals. Scarcely any of 
the male sex prowled about amongst them ; and a stereotyped appeal to 
the sympathy of the farmers' wives, who were blessed with sturdy and 
valued husbands, was to the effect " that there wasn't a mankind on the 
flure to do a hand's turn." This was an argumentvan ad rem to all who 
prized their helpmates. 

It was more than problematical, if amongst the entire swarm of bare- 
footed tramps there was one wedded woman ; there was no dearth of 
children in their hovels, notwithstanding,— the males banished to provide 
for themselves, as they reached maturity, and the females brought up to 
follow their worthy mothers' tracks, literally to tread in their footsteps 
along the well-marked footpaths leading to the farm-houses. The 
potato-beggars were, by their own account, every one of them, poor for* 
lorn widows, with large helpless families, and. therefore — Heaven help 
them! — great objects of commiseration. It must in truth be admitted, 
that they were for the most part expert thieves, and seldom without a 
plump fowl for supper. They had their points of utility, notwithstand- 
ing all this. They were the purveyors of the market for the very needy, 
who could purchase the national esculent in small quantities only, and 
from day to day. " Beggars' potatoes" were easily distinguished from 
all others offered for sale, being a heterogeneous admixture of every 



878 NOTES. 

kind cultivated ;— the cheaper for this reason, and the more come-at-ablt 
by the purchaser with a lank parse. 

The potato-beggars were welcome at the formers' houses as the ear* 
riers of news and gossip to suit all tastes ; they were invaluable as 
match-makers ; contrivers and promoters of assignations :— accredited 
employSes of the rustic Cupid in fact, and as such, apparently necessary 
constituents of the rural social economy of the time. 

The defects and blemishes of the dames described have been set forth. 
There is no cloud, however, without its " silver lining/' seen only, per- 
adventure, by the sun that lights it— and the ladies spoken of were 
distinguished by one excellent and generally-pervading characteristic. 
To those more needy than themselves they were truly benevolent and 
compassionate ; the wandering stranger was never refused a share of 
the potato-beggar's supper, whether the same was honestly or dishon- 
estly obtained ; the warmest corner near the cosy fire was never denied 
to such as claimed it, and a bed as good as could be provided was never 
refused to weary, houseless poverty. 

There was no legal provision for the footsore and penniless traveller 
when the potato-beggars were in their glory. Well-to-do people would 
not harbor such outcast guests, but to the potato-beggars they were 
ever welcome ; want and weariness were sufficient recommendations, 
and no inquiry made as to antecedents. It is a well-known fact, that in 
Ireland, anterior to the Poor-law enactments, the poor were the chief 
supporters of the poor; those having but little, sharing that little to the 
last mouthful. The writer has before now witnessed very many instan- 
ces of the cordial welcome given to fainting and famishing wanderers 
by those needing succor for themselves. The potato* beggars were pre- 
eminent as welcomers of the houseless. 

A curious calculation was entered into not long since, and on sufficient 
data, whereby it was ascertained that while lavish distribution of pota- 
toes was the order of the day in our locality, the annual money-value 
of this species of food gratuitously bestowed in a circle round our town 
of five miles radius, was little, if at all short, of six thousand pounds 
sterling. 

VII.— P. 64. 

The writer can pledge himself that there is nothing of the imaginative 
In this statement of a theft committed by his parish priest in his own 
humble abode. The assistant in a raid, identical with that described, 
was the narrator of all the particulars. The old man's housekeeper was 
a diligent and expert flax-spinner, and three or more pieces of home- 
made linen were annually fabricated into sheets, table-covering, and 
inner-garments ; and yet at Father ODonnell's death there were but 
two patched shirts in his chest of drawers. Whenever or wherever 
nakedness came under his notice, his unlimited compassion was aroused. 
He would on such recounters take the object of his commiseration by 
the hand, and lead him to some concealed spot— if the meeting took 
place in the street, the first open doorway answered the purpose—he 
would denude himself on the instant of his linen, and witn it cover the 
bareness of his companion ; and then, buttoning his vest and coat up to 
his chin, hurry home, to contend with the dume. named in the tale Mrs. 



votes. 879 

Molloy, for a farther supply. On all such occasions he had to prepare 
for a severe rebuke from the said dame, who regarded this species of 
property more as her own than that of her master, as being the result 
principally of her handiwork, with but little additional outlay of capital 

VIII.— P. 76. 

Father O'Donnell related to the informant of the writer, that during 
his ministry he had twice attended the same man to the gibbet, with 
small interval of time between the escape in the first instance and the 
actual infliction of death in the second — a second theft almost immedi- 
ately following the restored ability to perpetrate it. In those days, as 
Is well known, death was the punishment of crimes now regarded as 
minor offences. 

IX— P. 89. 

The beggar's petition here given, is word for word as the writer heard 
U delivered by a street mendicant, such in personal appearance and such 
In character as the tale describes Darby Cooney to have been 

X— P. 95. 

5*D ick Wresbam's school " is not a fancy sketch. There was an assem- 
bly such as that pencilled, composed of staid elderly men for the most 
part, held daily in and around Dick Wresbam's surgery : the principal 
business of the seminary being, the arrangement and execution of prac- 
tical jokes, for which species of mis-called witticism our town was cele- 
brated in fonmer times. Many of the wonld-be jests were no jests at all. 
Generally speaking, the pranks played were compounds of mischief and 
humor; often they were purely mischievous, without any qualifying 
admixture. 

XI.— P. 109. 

Some may be inclined to regard the account given in the tale of the 
" English Academy," of the master thereof, and of some of the boys oo- 
temporaneous with the author and his brother, as an intrusion j but the 
picture, so far as it is drawn, is the copy of a real subject 

XII.— P. 184. 

The letter of the text is copied from one written by a wag, as the in- 
troduction of a distressed man seeking the assistance of Father O'Donnell. 

Xm.— P. 145. 

It hat been remarked of late, either that idiocy is not so prevalent 
bow as formerly, or else, more probably, that creatures so afljpted take 
shelter in the workhouses, and do not ramble at large. Within the wri- 
ter's recollection not less than a dosen idiots were constantly resident 
la or frequent visitors of our city, and all of them welcome guests to 



380 VOTES. 

the Nick If sgratb of the tale. A curious, and perhaps not uninteresting 
paper might be written, descriptive of the individual weakness of intel- 
lect distinguishing each of our local doaen of " fools," as they were 
called : — some faculties of the mind astute and perfect, others inopera- 
tive and inapplicable ; in no two instances the character of the idiocy 
identical ; one general similitude, however— a total dislike and unfitness 
for any continuous occupation. 

XIV— P. 260. 

Upwards of seventy years ago, a boy of fourteen suffered the extreme 
penalty of the law in our city, and for the murder of his own aunt. The 
dav previous to the fulfilment of his sentence, a pet jackdaw, having a 
weight suspended from its feet, was found hanging by the neck from a 
rusty nail in the wall of his cell ; and the youthful desperado admitted 
that he had been the bird's executioner, bis object being, as he said, to 
contemplate the manner of his own death- throe. 



Father O'Donnkll, the model for the hero of the tale, died of fever, 
imbibed while attending the death-bed of one of his poor parishioners. 
That he might be able to hear the words of the dying man, and whisper 
the consolation of his ministry to him. it was necessary he should stretch . 
himself by the sufferer's side, on the bed of straw, made np, not on a 
bedstead, but on the floor of the cabin, and he inhaled the infectious 
breathings of the man he comforted. 9 

The yearly income of Father O'Donnell for his personal support, after 
deducting the salaries of two " coadjutors," scarcely reached one hun- 
dred pounds. The weddings of substantial people brought something 
handsome ; at christenings, too, presents were made, according to the 
ability of the parents ; but the chief source of emolument was derivable 
from the Christmas and Easter " dues." 

The " dues," so called, were a voluntary tax levied on the parishion- 
ers by themselves assembled in parish meeting ; the amount varying 
from five shillings, the ultimatum, down to sixpence. Those desirous of 
being considered as leading men headed the list : the poorer giving au- 
thority for the levy of the sixpence, and a considerable majority paying 
nothing at all. For the collection of the * 4 dues " so levied, the priest 
appointed district tax-gatherers; which officials were regarded very 
differently from their fellow-laborers, the tithe- proctors of the period. 
They were everywhere received with a cordial and respectful greeting : 
the tip-top payment of five shillings was made at once, and if the mini* 
mum sixpence was - tinder the cover of the roof," although that roof 
might not be weather-proof, it was sura to be forthcoming. 

The priest's collectors looked on their appointment as a distinction. 
Their instalment in office was regarded by themselves and their fellow- 

* That an old priest, however, did pzpire at the feet of a viceroy of Ireland 
while petitioning for the life of an inuooent panon, was given to the writer asa 



NOTES. 381 

parishioners as an acknowledgment of their correctness, general good 
conduct, and regular fulfilment of all their religious duties. To compare 
very different things, they might be called the priest's color-sergeants, 
and they held up their heads and took rank as such. 

At Christmas and Easter the honored and trusted gatherers of the 
"dues " delivered up their accounts. Then came a close scrutiny into 
the circumstances of the donors. As to the five-shilling rate-payers, 
there was no question about them, but the sixpenny contributors were 
carefully inquired after ; and the writer has had it from more than one 
of the respectable men collecting the tax, that on the winding-up of 
affairs, very many of the sixpenny men not only received their small 
contributions back again, but two. inree, and as many as ten other six* 
pences out of the general fund might be added thereto, where sickness 
or other calamity had fallen on a humble family. Before the net pro- 
ceeds were deposited in the old oak desk, one-fourth at least of Father 
O'Donnell's " dues " went in this way. No wonder the sixpenny men 
should be willing to meet his collectors! 

Father O Donnell's table was furnished sparingly; he fared comforta- 
bly, however ; but by his arrangements no residue went to his kitchen, 
his housekeeper being provided for separately. 

Immediately beneath Father O'Donnell's parlor window an aged apple 
and gingerbread seller had fixed herself, if not by his special invitation, 
at least with his full approval. The end of the avenue turning up tc 
the chapel was certainly a very good spot for catching spare half-pence 
Father ODonnell had provided this old dame with an immense old-timei 
umbrella, newly covered, when the present was made, with strong grey 
linen. This great umbrella shaded herself and her stall either from sun 
or rain, as the case might require. There was another use for it also, 
Every morning in the year, as soon as the old priest had breakfasted, 
his parlor window was raised np and his tray was slid out over the 
window-sill to old Alice Mahonv the apple woman, a previous tap having 
given notice of what was to follow. The big umbrella was raised to 
ward off observation, and behind its privacy the old woman fared sump- 
tuously,— encouraged while she feasted by the whispered invitations of 
Ler entertainer. Wheu she had satisfied herself, the tray was quietly 
slid back again the way it had come. Not to speak of the daily moruing 
meal, the priest might be considered as Alice Mahony's best customer. 
A looker-on would suppose he must have been a great lover of apples 
and gingerbread ; sixpence per diem, at least, was so expended ; but the 
sixpence was not so laid out for his persanal gratification. There were 
two good reasons for the outlay, — the old woman deserved encourage- 
ment, and there were many good boys and girls to be met with in the 
course of the day. 

But Alice Mahonv was not to expect two meals on any one day; this 
would be an injustice to others. When Father ODonnell had dined, 
however, he need only raise the latch of the door leading from his yard 
into the chapel lane, and there he was certain to find the hungry man or 
woman he had desired to be there. This person was duly seated at the 
table from which he had risen, and in addition to the remnant of the 
mid-day meal, might reckon on a draught of the ale furnished to him. 



882 MOTES. 

More- than one-half of Father O'Donnell's one hundred per annum was 
given away in money; one-fourth additional was bestowed in food, prin- 
cipally in the manner above relateli. It will not, therefore, surprise the 
reader to learn that, at his decease, four peace half-penny was the entire 
sum of his own money found in his desk. There was money for his 
school, and money for other charitable purposes; but these different 
parcels of coin were duly labelled for appropriation. 

The writer of these notes could multiply veritable anecdotes of the 
old priest to any length ; all tending to prove that the character of the 
" feather Conned" of the tale is no fiction. Perhaps, however, he tor 
aueady gone far enough. 



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OCT 2 6 1942